Pangaea
by RobinRocks
Summary: *Manifest your destiny* On the eve of the outbreak of the Second World War, England and America disappear. From history. UKUS/USUK with GerIta, RussPruss, Franada et al. Cowritten with Narroch.
1. Thirty Nine

Anyone up on their history may take note of the day Narroch and I – back for another of our epic co-written multi-chapter yaoi shenanigans – chose to begin posting this:

Today (in US time, at least – it's after midnight here in the UK) is 3rd September and, thus, 71 years to the day that the Second World War officially broke out, with Great Britain and France declaring war on Germany after the invasion by it and Russia of Poland on September 1st, 1939. Today seemed the most fitting day to make our debut given that this fanfic is very much embroiled with WWII and the historical implications of it (and the history that comes before it).

(Incidentally, everything over here in Britain is WWII-crazy at the moment because it's the 70th anniversary of the Battle of Britain and The Blitz, both of which took place in 1940. I was in London just this week and it's crazy up there – you'd think we'd never seen a war before…)

I don't want to chatter inanely too much up here; for now all I will say is that Narroch and I are very excited about this fic. Very.

If you know what 'Pangaea' is/means – and grasp the concept we're nudging at by selecting it as our title – you might understand why.

:)

_Pangaea_

Thirty-Nine

"There's going to be another war, isn't there?"

America was looking out of the window as he spoke – at the serene silver sky over London, daubed with pinks and violets, the dredges of the sunset before it drained completely behind Westminster. It was quiet out there, calm and settled, lulled and sleepy and in no mood for conflict. America pushed his shoulder-blades deeper into the sheets, burrowing his back further into England's bed, and sighed. It was comfortable here and America couldn't understand why England – Great Britain, to be perfectly accurate – was so keen to link arms with France and jump to Poland's defense the moment Germany so much as coughed in his direction; this was the sweet shell of Empire, the pearl-lined wall England had built around himself during his Golden Age, the precious shield he had managed to keep intact even after the Great War. America could _feel_ England's comfort just by being in his presence, naturally-radiating resplendence even without using his stolen robes and rubies as props; ah, but he could feel his restlessness also, sense his worry, see the path he paced in his drawing room carpet just as far as the phone cord would stretch, worn down to the wood just as England himself was worn down to the bone. America almost felt that he could tell the time on England's furrowed brow, the troubled lines crossing his visage as constantly and consistently as the minute hand ticking towards their uncertain future.

"England?" he asked; he turned his head towards him just in time to see the hollow needle sink in.

"Hmm?" England didn't look up at him, distracted by the thin rubber tubing being held taut between his teeth, keeping pressure around his upper arm as an improvised tourniquet.

England allowed the tubing to fall away and slowly pulled back the plunger; his veins flooded and blood began to fill the empty syringe. America looked away again on hearing the older man give a small hiss.

"I _said_," America repeated, still looking away as he began to roll up his own sleeve, "there's going to be another war, isn't there?"

"If Germany doesn't start behaving himself, then yes." England drew out the needle and laid it carefully on the bedside table next to the glowing lamp before reaching for the First Aid kit and wrapping some gauze over the pinprick in the crook of his left arm. The entry point had already begun to swell over with a heavy bead of blood and it took several passes of the gauze around his elbow before the stain didn't show through. "France and I shall personally ensure that there is another war," England finished sternly, pulling the bandage tight before taping it off.

"See, that's what gets me," America replied, sitting up properly. "I sure don't see why you even care. I mean, jeez, Poland? Since when are you and France all buddy-buddy with that flake?"

"This is less to do with Poland and more to do with the fact that I already compromised Czechoslovakia in a misguided attempt to appease Germany and it appears to have had little effect – not to mention the fact that he's already annexed Austria—"

"So what do you _care_?" America interrupted. "God, let' em all get on with it. If they wanna kill each other, fine."

"America, the Great War was supposed to _end_ all other wars; it was very much a failure, as was the League of Nations – if I might persuade you to not take offense – but I refuse to stand by and allow Germany to resume the kind of behavior that very much played its part in the outbreak of that war in 1914."

"So... you're gonna start _another_ war in order to prevent the outbreak of war? Do you even hear how ridiculous that sounds?" America asked skeptically.

"I'd rather it not be you to point such basic illogicality out to me; this level of conflict can't be so easily reduced to that. Diplomacy has not worked and it is obvious from Germany's aggressive actions that he doesn't intend to stop with just Poland. We can't wait until he shows up on our doorsteps before we bare our teeth," England replied tersely; he had taken up the syringe again and was replacing the used needle with a clean one out of the packet. "I assure you that France and I have tried to reason with him but he's already taken that idiot Italy under his wing and he's in the final stages of alliances with Russia and Japan—"

"Whoa, weren't those three on _our_ side last time?"

"Well, things change," England said bitterly.

America looked at him.

"Sometimes for the better," he said with a smile. He reached for England and took his empty hand, running his thumb over the back of England's palm. "You and I weren't on great terms one hundred years ago."

"You and I weren't on great terms _thirty_ years ago, America."

"True. I guess that so-called "Great War" was good for something."

"Well, yes, when you actually decided to _join_ the Allies at long last."

America shrugged and grinned.

"Better late than never," he said. He squeezed England's hand. "Well, I'm with you from the get-go this time, I promise." He looked at the dauntingly-large needle. "I-I mean, if we're... doing _this_..."

"Yes."

England held up the syringe to the window and looked at the tint of the late evening light shining horizontally through it, the blood washing against the circle of glass like the tide; even when it had settled it was not still, brighter glints and darker shadows in it, tiny fleets and miniature battles existing between the scarlet cells, England's wildest riches and poorest, filthiest streets, each of his rivers and castles and churches, his language and literature, his victories and defeats, everything that had shaped him into the man who now took hold of America's wrist and rubbed at it soothingly – pure liquid bloody history.

"If you are sure that you want it, of course," he went on, glancing back at America.

America nodded earnestly.

"Yes, yes, I want it," he said. "I swear this is what I want, England. We already discussed it—"

"I still want to give you the opportunity to change your mind," England interrupted calmly, looking again at the syringe holding his own blood, "now that the time is here. I could never force this on you, asking you to share my history within your own body..."

"I _want_ it!" America insisted, leaning forward to make his point. "You share mine – even if you weren't present for some of it, even if some of my wars haven't involved you even as my ally, you're aware of everything that has ever happened to me, whether it bit me on the ass or not. I mean, I've known you practically my whole life but _you_... there's something like seven hundred years of your history that happened before I was freaking _born_!"

"More than that," England corrected mildly. "I lie about my age from time to time."

"Okay, well, whatever," America said dismissively. "The math ain't important. My point _is_ that if we're gonna make this whole for-keeps grand alliance between us, I want it to be fair. You have my history so give me yours." He smiled again. "Let me have half the burden, okay?"

"My history is not a _burden_, thankyou very much," England retorted; but he shook his head with a smile of his own.

"Oh, I don't know," America teased. "What about that time you raised that kid you found – you know, the one that grew up to be an awesome hero that put you to shame?"

England smiled again and played along, enjoying the playful exchange that temporarily lessened the solemn atmosphere.

"Worst years of my life – but not a _burden_, necessarily. They make me feel better about my life now."

"Yeah, yeah, just 'cause I grew up to be better-looking than you..."

"That's what you may think. In all seriousness, America, are you absolutely sure about this?" England pressed, holding the syringe closer so America could see its crimson contents. "There will be no undoing it once it's done."

America shot him a bored look.

"We just covered this," he said. "Stick it in me already."

"To completely ignore your vulgar choice of words," England replied primly, "I just don't want you to feel obliged to agree to this out of some sense of duty. We can still form the Special Relationship without this level of... _intimacy_."

America blinked at him.

"Uh, England, newsflash but I kinda think we're _way_ beyond worrying about certain levels of intimacy – and have been since 1917—"

"Don't deliberately misunderstand," England snapped. "This isn't like sexual intercourse and you _know_ that. This... is the equivalent of me cracking open your skull, pouring in all of my historical memories, shaking them up with yours like a martini and then sewing you back up again." He swung the syringe, watching the blood flash behind the glass with the luster of rubies. "Furthermore, my blood – my history – is a particularly potent one. I am, even now, the largest empire that has ever existed in written records and I can tell you for a fact that I did not get to such a position by asking nicely. I have brought great powers like Spain, France and China to their knees. I am on the very verge of declaring war on Germany for a second time." He dangled the heavy syringe between his thumb and forefinger. "If you want this inside you, America, I will not hold back. I will give you everything – but know that I _did_ warn you. There is destruction in me unlike any you have ever known."

"Hey, whoa, you _suggested_ it and now you're trying to scare me off?" America gave a huffy sigh. "You wanna share your sob-story with me or not? Which is it, England?"

"I _do_ want to share it with you," England said in a low voice. "I really do but... I do not want you to despise me for it. This could serve to drive a wedge between us just as we try to close the gap completely."

America gave an uneasy shrug.

"It's not like you're the only one with demons," he pointed out. "I've done some pretty awful stuff too in my oh-so-short time."

"Yes, but... I'm going to put my demons into _you_. I would understand if you didn't want them, especially since you have your own."

"But you know mine," America said. "Let me know yours." He lay back again and put out his arm, laying it wrist-up on England's lap. "I'm okay with consummating it like this. This will be stronger than any written document, than any promise to come to your aid or sell you weapons. If we're going to forge an alliance and call it a "Special Relationship", let's make it exactly that – and I can be no closer to you than if I share your scars and know what it took to make you what you are now. We're making it a blood pact as well as a promise."

He met England's gaze, looking up at his green eyes from the pillow.

"I wouldn't reject your history any more than I would reject you," he said gently. "I want it the way I want you. I'll love it the way I love you. Share it with me, England."

England merely gave another small shake of his head, seemingly defeated by the sincerity of the words and the seriousness in America's eyes.

"Very well," he said, putting aside the syringe once more to go into the First Aid kit for a bottle and a cotton swab. "I suppose you're old enough to make your own decisions."

"It's _our_ decision," America persisted, his fingers dancing a little at the sensation of England rubbing alcohol in the crook of his upturned arm. "You're not conquering me – we're forming an alliance."

"Even so," England murmured, taking up the syringe again and giving a jab to the plunger to get out the air (a spray of blood spurted from the needle and spattered on the sheets), "history is written by the victors."

He held America's wrist still, thumb and forefinger pressing into the dips at the base of his hand, and lowered the needle his vein. America looked away again – not squeamish but still not really wanting to watch – as the needle sank slowly and decisively through the fragile skin and into him, cold and hard and unforgiving within the narrow margins of his vein. He took a handful of the blue bedsheets in his other hand, clutching numbly at them as he stared fixedly out of the window at the rapidly-darkening sky, trying to not make a sound as he felt the push on the plunger tremor through the glass and the needle and the blood begin to force itself into him, colliding and clouding with his own. He felt it more than he had expected to, a slow and cold oozing towards his wrist which made his toes curl in the confines of his socks as he willed himself to keep perfectly still – he could feel the swell of his vein as England pushed in more blood than he needed, feel the _thud_ of his pulse as his heart-rate accelerated at the sensation of it, some kind of strange fear knotted with curiosity braided with want tied off with trust—

"All done." England slid the needle back out and put it on the table – there was still a little bit of blood sloshing in the syringe. "Good lad – you can look now."

America glanced sulkily at him, letting go of the sheets.

"I wasn't scared," he pouted.

"I know." England taped a roll of clean cotton padding to America's vein to stem the tiny flourish of blood welling at the needle-mark. "We have a moment before it enters your heart." He turned America's hand over and kissed it. "We'll know then if you made the right decision."

America gave a deep exhale and nodded, taking his hand back and draping his forearm across his chest. England buckled the tin First Aid kit shut and went to put it away; America turned his head on the pillow and watched him, looking over his glasses at him so that he was smudged and faded at the edges like an old oil painting. The way he was dressed offered no indication of the fact that he was on the verge of stepping up to the helm of another European war, dark slacks with a white button-down shirt and a long, loose cardigan colored like wine. His feet were bare so there was no regimental _tap_ and _click_ when he walked, only the soft pad of his soles on the carpet, much too quiet for someone threatening to march right up to Germany and stamp his boot into his face.

"You can't be talked out of it, can you?" America said; it was not a question on his part and he met England's gaze determinedly as he was given his attention. "The war, I mean."

"If Germany doesn't touch anyone else, there won't be a war," England replied. "France and I are hardly going to declare war on him for something that he hasn't done, after all."

America gave a sigh.

"But aren't you tired of fighting, England?"

England made his way back to the bed.

"When my history hits your heart, you'll _know_ just how tired I am," he said. "But France and I made a pact with Poland to protect him if either Germany or Russia threatened him and I can hardly go back on my word when the time to make good on it comes." He bent and kissed America on the forehead. "It wouldn't be very heroic of me, would it?"

"No offense, England, but you have a bigger reputation as a villain," America murmured as England got onto the bed and lay down next to him. "Historically-speaking, I mean."

"Well, perhaps you've begun to rub off on me." England rested his head on America's chest, pressing his cheek to his heart. "Soon, now."

"Mm." America could feel the uncomfortable sensation begin in his breast even as he agreed; it was akin to a tight bubble or balloon swelling inside his heart, making the walls of it tingle and burn, and his breath came in shorter gasps. "Christ, England if this thing kills me—"

"You're going to be alright," England chided mildly, lifting his head again. "It's perfectly natural that the experience would be unpleasant. You're taking in every battle and war and sickness I have ever known at a condensed, accelerated pace. It might make you a little feverish but it's far quicker than sitting you down with a history book – and our alliance will be much stronger for it, too."

"...I guess."

America gave a grunt of discomfort, grimacing; as though the core in his heart had grown roots, he could feel tendrils of it beginning to spread all throughout him, upwards and downwards and taking over every vein and artery and capillary and organ, wrapping thickly around every bone and binding every joint. It wasn't agonizing, more a sort of dull, persistent ache that pressed against the walls of his skull and the backs of his eyes and into every last crevice of him, all of his being filled with someone else's suffering.

"It will be over soon," England promised, leaning over him.

America blinked up at him, England's image swaying to and fro before him as though a reflection in a river; he gave a bewildered nod and twisted in disquiet on the sheets, desperately wanting to believe him. His back had begun to hurt in a way that made it difficult to lie still, concentrated low at the base of his spine and making him constantly seek a position that stopped it aching so. He soon found his movements restricted, however, by England slithering between his legs and lying on top of him, acting like a dead weight.

"Hold on to me," he said quietly. "It's almost over – hold on to me as hard as you want but don't let go, do you understand?"

America gave another, more frantic, nod and wrapped his arms around England, cuddling him close and tight as he squeezed his eyes shut. Another sensation was beginning to overcome him, powerful, unavoidable, something like a huge wave that he could feel coming but couldn't possibly swim away from. The strange, shuddering pressure began at his feet and worked its way through him like an undercurrent. It hit his lungs, made him cough on the brine before surging through his heart with an icy jolt and then finally crested upwards into his brain; crashing with the tumbling force of a thousand images suddenly bursting behind his closed eyes, guns and knives and blood and bayonets and drums and mud and tattered flags and torn uniforms of all colors. The sound of it all caught up a moment later, a delayed promise of a musical score to accompany it, screams and shouts and the barking of orders, the fire of rifles and cannons and the roar of waves against the wooden underbellies of ships.

The collective memories of an entire culture, a whole history, flashed through America, revealing themselves to him only as compressed sensory archetypes packed in so tightly that, as they tried to make room for entire centuries, they physically lashed out at their new cage – only the bars were America's body rather than steel and he felt it as they ripped and settled into him, stretching to the very edges of his skin. He clutched tighter and tighter at England, his eyes wide and unseeing, panting in shallow panicked breaths as his hands contorted and gripped of their own accord, suddenly frantic to get beneath his cardigan and shirt and spread on his skin, to feel for his scars and unconsciously match them battle-by-battle. He held England like a shield, the body that had originally borne the brunt of all these wounds, and felt him curled over him as though he was protecting _him_ from having to take these same injuries.

"Don't let go, America," England whispered. "I might not be able to pull you out."

"I won't, I _won't_," America sobbed, twisting his hands tighter into England's scarred skin. "Don't... don't you let go either!"

"I won't, I promise," England murmured.

America felt another kiss pressing reassurance on his brow in the final moment before the blackness drowned his senses and he passed out.

—

"There's going to be another war, isn't there?"

France's tone was far more resigned than America's had been; it was barely a question on his part, sighed out with a tired cynicism; he was a nation older than even England and with a history just as bloody, long involved in border feuds and disputes over who ruled what and when and how before England had even been anything worth wading across the Channel for. France had dealt with the entire continent for centuries and by now he could sense and accept the impending conflicts before they even started.

"It all depends on Germany, really," England replied blandly, not willing to voice agreement with France's unspoken certainty though he felt it too; the warmongering atmosphere was undeniable, an electrical current that set the hairs on his neck up. He cradled the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he reached across the heavy oak desk in the drawing room for the rolled-up map across the other side of it, the receiver wedged there still so that he could roll the map out with both hands. "I see no reason why we cannot handle this like gentlemen."

France gave a deep, rich, amused laugh at the other end of the crackling line.

"Ah, but," he said, "with you, dear Angleterre, that word always has such a double meaning. War is also a gentleman's pursuit, is it not? To send a written declaration of one's intent to bear arms against another is far more gentlemanly than to behave like a ruffian and simply bang down his door uninvited—"

"You mean as _he_ intends to do with Poland," England interrupted. He was busy looking at the map; it was a full world diagram and he had spent an hour or so some nights ago attending to it with the design of Earth at present, cross-hatching Germany and Italy in red and marking Japan and Russia with dubious red question marks, outlining annexed nations Austria and Czechoslovakia in blue and cross-hatching himself, France, America and Canada in green. He had also marked China with green – it was a well-known fact by now that China had been fighting with Japan since 1935, although he wasn't sure if that automatically made China an Ally.

"What of Russia?" England asked, tracing his finger idly over the question mark.

"I am unsure," France admitted. "I know he has visited Germany's house several times but I do not know if any kind of alliance has been forged." There was a pause. "I remain surprised that he will perhaps choose to side with someone who has proposed an alliance with China's enemy. There is much bitterness between China and Japan."

"Whichever side Russia picks, I'd rather we not be forced to rely on him," England muttered. "Not after last time. If America hadn't joined us—"

"If Amérique had not joined us and you two had not finally burned off your intolerable sexual tension within the so very romantic confines of a tank, I would _still_ be listening to your feebly-disguised complaints that he is ungrateful and moronic and most certainly not to your liking," France cut in boredly; though England was certain he was sporting an amused grin nonetheless. He never failed to bring it up, thoroughly entertained by how easily and early on he detected England's pathetic attempt at denial. "Regardless, now that you have him so very firmly attached to you at the hip, might I be correct in surmising that he will be joining us should we decide to take action against Germany?"

"Yes, he has given me his word. I suppose I can expect the same from Canada?"

"Certainement, Angleterre." There was another pause on France's end of the line. "If you do not mind my inquiring, where _is_ dear Amérique? Everything seems so very quiet."

England let go of the map, letting it snap back into a cylinder, and straightened, taking the phone in his hand once more.

"He's asleep," he said after a moment's consideration. "He was tired."

It wasn't exactly a lie, more like a necessary omission; the earlier procedure to share England's history had knocked America out and it didn't seem as though he was going to be waking any time soon, settled in a feverish slumber with sweat shining on his skin and his eyes flickering like an old film behind his closed lids. England could imagine what he was seeing, going over his own memories in his mind and inwardly cringing at what he knew he had put him through. But the pain was necessary: blood pacts couldn't be formed without breaking skin, without breaking barriers. England had made him as comfortable as possible, pulling the sheets over him, taking off his glasses and putting a cool, damp cloth on his forehead before leaving him to come downstairs and call France. There was nothing else he could do for him at the moment – that much history needed time to settle in a body unaccustomed to holding its expanse. It might take days, perhaps even weeks, for America to get used to it.

"Ah, no doubt you have been working him to the bone," France drawled, "in more ways than one."

"I hardly think that's any of your business," England replied coolly.

"Perhaps, but I would like to hope that he will be in a condition to assist us in the coming days nonetheless."

England hesitated. He wasn't sure if France was exaggerating _even_ the level of perversion he usually applied to his speculations about England's wildly-inaccurate sex life or if... he was genuinely taking a stab at a suspicion. Certainly what England had just shared with America had taken more out of him than, say, a round of bondage-play complete with handcuffs and riding crop (which had never ever happened) would have – but it remained that England didn't know quite which of these options France was nudging at. England knew better than a lot of people that France could actually be reasonably intelligent from time to time (usually when he wanted something – some sweet piece of ass, more often than not – but still).

"He will be, I assure you," England eventually replied, his voice stiff; he had, he felt, exhausted his patience with France for tonight. "Tomorrow, then?"

"Indeed; I greatly anticipate the pleasure," France said dryly. "Au revoir, mon ami."

He put down the phone without waiting for England to return a goodbye, leaving him with the click and buzz telltale-tune of having been hung-up on. England tutted and slammed the receiver back down with more force than was necessary, flopping sideways into the plush armchair at the desk and settling with his legs crossed and hooked over one of the carved wooden arms and his back curved over the other. He gave a deep, tired sigh and rubbed at his forehead to soothe the beginnings of a headache.

Yes. Yes, there _was_ going to be a war. It was not a case of 'if' but rather one of 'when' – and the 'when' was coming soon. He could feel it, advancing fast and low like thunder rolling, as obvious as coming storms he had seen galloping like wild horses across America's wide open plains. He was not afraid, not angry – but rather weary, having known for years that it was eventually going to come to this. Each passing day for over twenty years, Germany had licked his wounds and pieced together his pride again, all the while despising those who had blamed him wholly for the Great War. France and England had done their very best to leave him friendless and penniless and worthless, to punish him, to put him back in his place and prove that he was in no position to push himself forward when Europe was under _their_ thumbs instead. Oh, England had known there was going to be another war. Even back then. He knew how it felt to come back from subjugation like that with a vengeance. The promise had been weaved into the loops of his own signature on the armistice, the curves of France's, the lines of Germany's—

But not in America's.

He couldn't protect America. He knew that. Whether he took America into the war at his side from its outbreak or whether he left him alone until he made his own decision to join in, he couldn't keep him out of it. He knew it even if he didn't like it – so he had tried something else instead. Proposing an alliance that was without political or economic motivation – merely a promise that they would always be allies no matter the conflict – benefited them both and opened America up to the idea that England didn't just want him for his tanks and guns and vast resources; the immense power bestowed upon him through the iron baptism of industrialism. Giving America his history – over a millennium of bloodshed that America himself would never have to personally experience – was like an inoculation. With that kind of borrowed experience, America could fight in an old European war like this as another old European nation. The blood wouldn't bother him and, when it was all over, he would give a cynical shrug and sign the peace-papers and know that there would be another. He was far from innocent to begin with but he'd never known a war longer than a few years, never known what it felt like to carry centuries of blood and alliances and vendettas that would cycle around each other until everything was entangled.

Still...

England reached into the pocket of his cardigan and took out the glass syringe, tipping it this way and that. What little remained of his blood in it spiraled down the tube with every motion. He had taken too much from himself and hadn't wanted to force all of it into America's body for the sake of waste not, want not. Really, he hadn't wanted to put it into America's body _at all_ but...

It would be worth it if it saved him.

England pulled out the plunger, holding the syringe open like a test-tube, and swung his legs over the arm of the chair so that he was sitting in it properly. He rolled out the map again and pinned it first with his elbows and then the first two paper weights that came to his hand, looking down at it critically with the syringe suspended at half-mast over it. It was an old map, made at the very height of England's power so that over a third of it was marked with the abbreviated _B.E._ – British Empire.

He rested his chin on one hand and tilted the other just enough to send a single drop of blood threading downwards onto the paper, calculating it close enough that it hit Great Britain and spattered like a star over England and into the frayed edges of Wales and Scotland.

Almost unconsciously he began to drift his hand leftwards, trailing tiny splashes over Ireland and into the Atlantic, slowly-but-surely making his pebbled way across the faded blue ink towards the United States—

"England?"

England jumped violently at the sound of America's voice coming from nowhere, dropping the syringe in shock; it hit the map, rolled off the edge of the desk and went spinning to the hard-wood floor, where it shattered and the last few beads of blood scattered themselves over the boards. Putting his hand to his hammering heart, England turned towards America, who was standing behind him with the whole duvet pulled around him like a heavy cloak – he was very white and still sweating, his gold hair sticking to his forehead, and was squinting short-sightedly at the map.

"Wh-what are you... doing?" he asked, stepping closer.

"Nothing." England stood abruptly, composing himself. "Nothing at all. I was just coming to bed – which is really where _you_ ought to be, my boy."

"I know, I..." America trailed off, pausing confusedly. "I was just... looking for you... I-I wondered where you'd gone..."

"Phone call," England replied shortly, brushing the paperweights off the map and letting it roll shut before America could get close enough to see it in detail even without his glasses. "I was talking to France."

"About the war?"

"Yes, about the war." England patted America's back through the thick blue bed-sheet clutched around his body. "Come on, let's take you back to bed. I expect you're not feeling very well."

America nodded and allowed himself to be steered back towards the door of the drawing room; England was relieved that he wasn't really in his right mind at the moment and thus hadn't insisted on seeing the map. Thanks to his dropping the syringe, there was a rough arc of blood cutting through the United States and Canada which doubled back on itself, slicing a clean, thin red line from the rim of the glass cylinder back across the Atlantic, through the South of Ireland, Wales, England, over the English Channel and into France before fading off a centimeter or so into Italy.

It had been an accident but he still didn't want America to see it. Even for a less superstitious country than himself, the bloody pattern was ominous.

He decided that he would clean up the broken syringe in the morning as he leaned back into the room after ushering America out; his hand on the light switch, he glanced briefly at the clock.

It was eleven minutes after midnight on September 1st, 1939.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed what is very much the calm before the storm!

I am very glad that Narroch and I are finally writing a proper multi-chapter _Hetalia_ fanfic together. This makes our third project of what one might call "epic" proportions (the first being _Small Print_ for the _Teen Titans_ section and the second being _Poison Apple_ for the _Death Note_ section – _The Monster You Made_, also for the _Death Note_ section, was something of a failure that sort of lost momentum before it got off the ground…) and I really feel it to be the most appropriate. We got into this fandom together during my year abroad in the United States (after both claiming to hate it, going home and watching ALL OF IT separately and then guiltily admitting to it about a month later) and we have both always been highly amused by the immense popularity (due to its being _almost_-canon) of the USAxUK pairing, given that they are, respectively, our countries. Personally _I_ sprang onto that bandwagon quite a while ago, USUK being more-or-less the only pairing I have written – but I always maintained that I wanted Narroch and I to write something of grand proportions like _Poison Apple_ for _Hetalia_ and for the USUK pairing so that we might draw on our own cultural differences, even things as menial as the differences in our spelling (favourite vs favorite) and the words we use for things (pavement vs sidewalk), and feed them into our portrayal of Alfred and Arthur's relationship. I almost feel that it would be a complete waste of our being legit-American-and-British if we _didn't_ write this pairing!

ANYWAY, enough justification! This fic… is mostly USUK/UKUS; but it features a few side-pairings. Franada should be obvious – GerIta will also appear, alongside AusHung. We're still trying to work out details of other pairings – there won't be room for some and others (like one of my favourites, Giripan) just aren't plausible in a 1940s setting. We really hope we don't put anyone off with our choice of pairings – I know this fandom can be quite divided on who goes with who when and so forth…

I don't know how often updates will be but we'll try not to have too long between chapters! Hope you come back for the next one! ^-^

RobinRocks and Narroch

xXx

P.S: Anyone who came here after my shameless plug on the latest chapter of _A is For_, thankyou very much and I hope you enjoyed it! On that note… you may be wondering why I haven't updated _A is For_ today. The truth is that I am afraid I didn't manage to get the next chapter finished in time for today because I was Englanding (again) in London and so I think it will be Sunday like last week. Hope you can wait another day or so! Sorry – and soon, I promise!


	2. Am Anfang

Wow, well, we got a pretty good response for the first chapter of _Pangaea_! Thankyou all so much! We're glad to have generated this much excitement about the fic already!

You may have noticed my icon, btdubs, lololololol.

Honestly, we really only updated today because I happen to like 21st October, haha. It's Samuel Taylor Coleridge's birthday as well as Apple Day (apparently!) in the UK. =) Apple Day was more fitting for _Death Note_ fic updates but, well, Narroch always needs a deadline to aim for, so… XD

Thankyou to: **cabinet-files, Lost Duck Inc, Genki-angel-chan, rae1112, Scarlet Rose-Lady Mask, Chibi Chibi Sami, Mister Peaches, Synonymous Brian, Author and Co, suzako, Obsessed Authoress, Picadillo, cax, hoshiko2kokoro, jesusofsuburbia2o2o, TheWonderBunny, nocco, G Dubya, sarcastic moron, egoXlockheart, Leto Mireille **and **PikaNicoMeco**!

So this chapter sees the beginnings of actual plot (ikr?) as well as some more characters! Yayz!

Oh, and some well-known history… with a bit of a twist.

Pangaea

Am Anfang

"Understand that this invasion was not decided on a whim. You were not selected at random, Poland, to be my second step – rather, this has taken many months of very careful planning. You were _chosen_ for this." Germany narrowed his blue eyes at Poland; who, despite already having a hideous bruise blooming darkly across his feminine face courtesy of Russia, still seemed rather defiant, as though not quite ready to accept that he had been beaten down and invaded. "But you know that. You knew that this was going to happen. France and England even warned you. You could have taken far better precautions than you did."

Poland gave a snort, pursing his lips into a sneer.

"Like this is going to make any difference," he said blithely, waving his hand at Germany dismissively. "You guys should just totally get out of my house while the going is still good, you know? England and France are going to declare war all over your asses if you don't. That's, like, a given."

Russia smiled. Prussia gave a short, harsh bark of laughter. Italy didn't look up from the spread of miniature glass ponies galloping across the mantelpiece he was examining.

Germany gave a grim smile, tightly controlled so it spoke more of intimidation than any real joy, and leaned forward in his chair – Poland's chair, in fact. They were all in Poland's living room, clustered close like a small makeshift court, Germany in the center in an armchair, Italy hovering nearby, more engrossed with Poland's knick knacks than the country himself, Russia perched largely and politely on the edge of the sofa and Prussia draped over the back of it like a cat, his scarlet eyes darting this way and that, interested and thoroughly bored all at once.

Poland stood before them like a criminal in the dock and, though he looked down on them in their seated positions, the haughty disdain in the invader's eyes made it clear who was on trial. Poland was bloodied and beaten and bruised from where they had forced their way into his house earlier; bright flashes of color smeared across his once-immaculate face and uniform as tribute to the violence he'd endured in the four-against-one attack. Despite everything, and _in_ spite of the pain he was undoubtedly in, his arms were folded and his weight rested on one leg, his hips tilted in a petulant stance quite unlike that of a soldier – or even a loser.

"I am ready for them," Germany said matter-of-factly, his tone patient as though explaining something to a child.

Poland rolled his eyes and flipped his wrist yet again.

"Oh, sure, yeah, just like you were "ready for them" last time?" he asked scathingly, even going so far as to employ taunting quotation marks with his fingers. "I seem to recall you getting your sorry butt kicked back in the 'teens."

Germany straightened again, irritated by Poland's persistence in being so obtusely ignorant to the fact that he'd been invaded – and, of course, for stupidly digging up old wounds to salt them with sarcasm.

"Twenty years changes much," he replied tersely. "I have worked hard since the Great War to make myself strong once more."

"And that's _lovely_," Poland said, "but I don't see why you can't just go and be your brawny-self in your _own_ house. Why'd you have to come over here and barge in uninvited? It's totally rude and I, like, don't even care anyway. What's your deal, seriously?"

"I was treated very unfairly at the end of the war," Germany snapped, snarling at the memory. "England and France did all they could to cripple me."

"Uh, _yeah_, to stop you starting another war!"

"I didn't start the Great War – Austria and Hungary did against Serbia. I merely supported them."

"And you _all_ got your sorry butts kicked," Poland finished with a yawn, dragging his fingers through his hair until they caught in a sticky patch of blood. He pulled back to examine his palm before continuing, not bothering to make eye contact. "It's ancient history now. God, move on already! I don't need this hassle right now, seriously! I mean, look, if you're so riled up over it, go invade France!"

Germany's icy eyes glinted at the name.

"Oh, I intend to," he said pleasantly, though his eyes continued to gleam with a caustic light.

Poland pointed behind him, ignoring the blatant tension he was causing.

"Well, there's the door." He crossed to the sofa and flopped down onto it dramatically, elbowing Russia. "Hey, like, budge up? I can't even sit down in my own house!"

"That is correct," Russia agreed cheerfully, shoving Poland in the back and sending him face-first onto the floor.

Prussia howled with laughter, sprawling over the back of the seat.

"God, who brought the hyena?" Poland spat, kneeling up; he turned crossly towards Russia. "And _you_, I don't know what your problem is but Liet is totally gonna kick your ass when he finds out you were in on invading me!"

Russia merely smiled serenely at him.

"Lithuania will do no such thing," he responded calmly. "He will do as I tell him. The Soviet Union is a close family, you see, and not one of us turns his – or her – back on their brothers and sisters."

"That's what _you_ think!" Poland stuck out his tongue. "Liet totally, like, called me when he overheard you saying you were gonna invade me with Germany!"

"And still you did nothing?" Germany cut in before Russia could speak. "Are you simply deliberately stupid, Poland?"

"Hey! That's big talk from someone who invaded me after England and France totally said not to or they'd come beat you up again like they did last time!"

"This will not be as it was before," Germany said, rising abruptly to stand at his full, impressive height. "England and France are going to pay for what they did to me – and, contrary to what England thinks, Czechoslovakia is not nearly enough to pacify my anger and humiliation."

"Germany..." Italy suddenly looked up, craning his neck towards Germany as the potent anger bubbling barely beneath the surface caught his attention more than the words themselves. "You said this wasn't about revenge. You _promised_."

Poland glared at Italy as though suddenly noticing that he was there at all.

"Yeah, I meant to ask," he said coolly, pointing accusingly at Italy, who had ducked and crouched behind Germany to avoid the fierce look, "what's with the quivering little lap-dog?"

"That's what I said," Prussia put in, genuinely curious about Germany's response. He sure as hell couldn't see any reason for keeping such a weakling under his wing just as their plan was taking flight.

"He is not your concern," Germany answered coldly, turning then to Prussia after addressing Poland. "Nor _yours_."

Prussia shrugged. He would find out eventually.

"Whatever," he muttered. "Guess it's nice to have something pretty to look at, at least..."

"Okay, look," Poland said shortly, getting to his feet again and squaring up to Germany despite being a lot smaller than him. "I don't know what you promised your little pet over there but this sounds exactly like a revenge-plan to me and let me tell you now that I don't want anything to do with it. You wanna go pick a fight with France and England, fine, they seem like they're up for it – but don't drag everyone into it like you guys did last time. That was totally uncalled for! God, by the end of it like everyone in the world showed up – America and Australia and _Japan_, for crying out loud!"

"Oh, I assure you that this is going to be a spectacle quite unlike the Great War," Germany replied very calmly. "There will be no time for anyone to be "dragged in" – beginning with you, we shall swiftly make our way westward. We shall take Belgium, we shall take Holland, we shall take Luxembourg; we shall take Denmark and Sweden and Finland and Norway. We shall take France and crush him before he can mobilize. We shall isolate England and destroy him if need be; Spain and Romano are neutral but will act as a satisfactory block against England's ally Portugal if they are required to do so. It will all be very quick, very painless and very complete – all of Europe will fly under one flag and be united in a common way of thinking. When Europe is united then we shall expand outwards to Asia, to Australasia and Africa and to America and Canada. This is not intended to be a war, Poland – this will be a union, a new beginning for the world. It cannot go on as it is."

"Congratulations, Poland," Prussia drawled from the sofa. "You're the first to be amalgamated into the grand new German-Soviet Community or whatever the hell we're calling it."

Poland blinked at Germany, both the blood and surprise starkly lit across his face. It seemed he was lost for words for a short moment before stuttering:

"W-wait, are you, like... trying to take over the world or something?" he asked at length.

"That's a very crude way of putting it," Germany sighed without acknowledging it.

Poland kneaded at his forehead.

"Okay, you are _crazy_," he said. "I had no idea up until just now but you are completely insane, Germany. A new beginning? Yeah, what you want to do is actually called "creating an Empire" and England is going to be really, _really_ pissed off if you start trying to usurp him."

"I'm crazy?" Germany picked nonchalantly at his cuff. "Then by that logic your wonderful friend England that you keep mentioning is _also_ crazy. He is, at present, the largest Empire that has ever existed in history."

"Oh, yeah, I mean, that's not exactly news," Poland countered, "but at least he's not all like 'I'm doing this for the greater good, everyone will thank me when the world is a better place' about it."

"So you think it's better to be upfront about greed?"

"I think it's better for you to just be upfront about being seriously butthurt over the Great War and the fact that you _lost_." Poland flapped his hands at Germany in a dismissive manner. "Okay, whatever. Call it what you want – I'm not interested in your let's-all-be-friends-except-not-really-because-I'm-actually-invading-you thingy you have going on here. Go invade someone else. Go invade like India or somewhere and watch how fast England descends on you for touching his stuff."

Germany glanced briefly at Russia, who rose too and approached Poland.

"Poland," Germany said stiffly, nodding to Russia as he joined him, boxing Poland in, "you fail to understand this situation – _still_. Your house is now under our control. We will not be leaving, nor will we be taking any orders from you. You are now our prisoner and you will cooperate with us if you do not wish for things to become very unpleasant."

Russia grabbed Poland from behind, strong limbs looping up around Poland's arms in a full-nelson, stopping him from struggling or escaping.

"Hey, let go!" Poland screeched, thrashing in Russia's strong grasp. "This is totally, like, assault! Russia, get _off_ me! _Let go_!"

Without any warning Germany slammed his fist into Poland's gut, silencing him as his eyes grew wide with shock and his lungs trampolined with the effort of bringing in air that had been so completely punched out of him.

"Lock him up, would you?" Germany said grimly, straightening up again. "I expect his bedroom has a lock on the door. Make sure he doesn't escape."

Russia easily dragged Poland out of the room and it wasn't until he had begun to ascend the stairs when Poland finally got his wind back and began to cough and protest loudly.

"Lock me up? You can't imprison me in my own house! Germany, I'm totally gonna kick your ass – how dare you do this to me! When England and France hear about this—!"

A door slammed upstairs and Poland's shrieking was immediately muffled; there was the occasional thud from the ceiling but Russia didn't appear to be having too much trouble pacifying their prisoner.

"Well, that was easy," Prussia sighed, finally hoisting himself over the back of the sofa and landing heavily on it, stretching himself out in four directions like roots to water. "Loud – but easy."

"You didn't even do anything; you have no right to complain." Germany bit out, sinking back into his armchair to collect his thoughts.

Italy crawled timidly towards Germany, clutching the old Italian Bible he always carried with him. Having explored everything of interest in Poland's house, he had intended to curl up next to Germany and read – but that was before everyone started getting scary.

"Germany?" he asked gently in his thickly-accented German. "Are you alright?"

"Of course, Italy," Germany sighed. "Don't concern yourself. I am merely thinking on what to do next – now that we have begun. Things are going to get very complicated very quickly."

Italy looked down at his leather-bound Bible, the edges cracked and spotted from age and use.

"Can I read to you?" he asked. "Perhaps it might help you to think."

"I don't think I can deal with Italian at the moment," Germany sighed honestly. "You know I'm not very good at it."

"I can translate!" Italy chirped, kneeling more comfortably next to Germany's chair. "My German is becoming very good now, isn't it?"

"Y-yes, well... I suppose so," Germany said resignedly. "You can read to me if you want to, Italy."

"Oh, this ought to be good," Prussia muttered with a sneer, closing his eyes and getting comfortable.

Italy ignored him, flipping back to the beginning of his Bible and opening it at Genesis; he scanned over the Italian, his mind working quickly to replace the words with their German equivalents. He leaned against Germany's legs and began to read.

"Am Anfang shuf Gott Himmel und Erde..."

* * *

The first time America awoke, drenched in cold sweat, it was dark; or dark enough, at least, the beginnings of grey-violet light crawling in through the gap in the curtains, giving enough definition to all of the odd things in England's room so that they became humped dark shapes, separate enough from each other to be distinguished as lone objects rather than crests of the same black wave. England was asleep next to him, one arm thrown across America's sticky chest and with his head pillowed on America's shoulder. America shifted, turning onto his side, and England nudged against him affectionately, spooning him in his sleep. America leaned back into it, feeling safer for his embrace as it soothed the shivers that shot through him despite the clustered heat of the blankets and England's body acting as a small furnace. He lay motionless, breathing slow and even, trying to become one with the fuzzy silence echoing in his mind until a sudden tremor shattered the stillness and he was swept under again with a memory that reared up unannounced, the painful internal rending of a Civil War quite different to his own – where a parliament had turned against its own king.

The second time America awoke, England was gone and it was light. Very dimly, as though it was miles away, he thought he could hear the shrill ringing of a telephone. The ringing came to an abrupt halt and America couldn't decide if the phone had been answered or if the caller had simply rung off. There was a wet cloth on his forehead but it was warm now; he plucked it off and tossed it onto the bedside table. He was terribly thirsty but it didn't occur to him to call for England or try to get up. He simply lay and looked up at the white ceiling for a while, not even working to connect the spiderweb of cracks he'd never noticed before. He whimpered quietly as the fractured lines suddenly descended from the abstract white and embedded inside him, splintered his senses and dragged him down into the memory of some ageless, nameless battle with France again.

The third time America awoke, he felt very odd. Fragments of England's history shimmered inside his skull, one occasionally flashing brighter than all the others as though the sun shining on coins thrown to the bottom of a fountain, causing them to glint one by one. It made his head ache terribly; stimulus was coming in through the wrong end and making a kaleidoscope of his thoughts. He shifted onto his side towards the dresser, his whole body feeling heavy and his muscles wailing in protest; the cloth fell off his forehead again, landing at his shoulder. England was changing at the dresser mirror, replacing the comfortable clothes he had no doubt put on when he had first gotten up with a brand new British Army regulation uniform.

"Are... we at war?" America asked; he all but croaked it, his throat being so dry.

England turned to him; his jacket was still unbuttoned and his green tie was loose around his crisp starched collar.

"You sound thirsty," was the first thing he said. "I'll fetch you some water."

He went bustling out of the room, knotting his tie as he went; America noticed the dodged question but was too parched to care at that exact moment. He closed his eyes again tiredly, waiting for England to come back and watching the shards of memories swell and burst against the backs of his eyelids like a slow viscous boil of shells and sickness and sinking ships.

"Here." England was back before America had even really acknowledged he was gone. "Sit up, now; you won't be able to drink it otherwise."

England helped America to sit up, noticed the quiet moan and compensated for the vertigo by propping up his pillows for him. Once upright, the glass was delightfully cold in his hands and colder still in his mouth; it cut an icy swatch down his middle as he drank it all down without pausing for breath, giving a gasp as he drained the last of it and pressed the empty glass against his burning forehead.

"Is that better or would you like more?" England asked, buttoning his jacket and sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I'm good for now, Mommy Hen," America breathed with a faint grin, putting the glass down on the bedside table. "Thanks."

England leaned forwards and pressed a hand to America's forehead.

"You're very hot," he muttered. "How do you feel?"

"Rotten," America admitted. "Your history ain't agreeing well with me at all."

"Well, even so, perhaps it will fix your appalling grammar," England replied, standing again. "Come on, I think you ought to lie back down. I'll fetch you some more water and another cloth for your head."

"You didn't answer my question," America said, resisting England's hand on his shoulder; he reached up and tugged at England's uniform sleeve. "You're dressed up to the nines. We're at war, right?"

"Not quite yet," England replied. "That is, France and I have yet to declare war. But it has happened – Germany has breached our ultimatum and invaded Poland's house and taken it under his rule, aided by Russia and accompanied, it seems, by Prussia and Italy."

"Did France call to tell you that?"

"Mm. News travels fast on the continent." England pushed more firmly at America. "Lie down now, love. You're exhausted. I doubt my history has finished with you yet."

"How much longer is this going to take?" America groaned, settling again.

"I don't know," England replied. "I've never done this before." He leaned down kissed America on the forehead. "You rest and I'll get you some more water."

"Ugh, I _would_ be your experiment," America grumbled, watch England gather the cloth and the glass and his belt, which had been lying at the foot of the bed, and leave the room again.

He walked differently to how he had last night – when he had been barefoot, padding quietly about his house with a gentleness, an ease, born of peacetime. He was different when in uniform. Most nations were, admittedly, but England particularly so, as though that uniform brought out an odd savagery in him that he only barely concealed behind the straight posture and the salute and the hard tap of his boots – the strapping of a gentleman manufactured to guise the base bloodthirstiness at his core. England would never admit it but he _liked_ war – America knew he did, he could _feel_ it now as England's historical memories and wounds and emotions swam within him (and it hardly needed to be admitted to, after all, when England was in uniform already even though he had said himself that they actually weren't at war "quite yet").

The war, and the memories, were both transforming the geometric shapes of himself and England; they somehow fit more closely together now having awoken from the same mold of impending or remembered violence. England shifted easily into the role, simply changed his clothes and the persona followed. It wasn't as effortless for America; he was still suffering from his own metamorphoses and he wasn't convinced if the change was inevitable as England seemed to think it was.

America looked about for a clock, finding one at England's side of the bed; he rolled closer to it so that he wouldn't have to squint and checked the time. It was long past noon – lunchtime – but he found that he wasn't hungry even though he had missed breakfast too. He didn't want to stay in bed all day, really, but he also didn't have either the will or the strength to push himself up and get out of bed. He was still dreadfully hot but, despite that, he was also starting to shiver again and he huddled down under the covers even though the claustrophobic heat was torture. In the dark cave of the covers, the memories burned brighter still like flickering stars in his mind, clashing and clinking like pebbles on the shore. He curled up very tight, trying to close into himself to shut them out, to make them stop for just a moment so that he could have his body all to himself again—

"America." He felt England nudge him through the covers. "Don't do that, you're not a child." He heard the taunting _clink_ of the glass being set down again. "Come now, I have a fresh cloth for you to cool you down."

Well, _that_ was tempting – as was the glass of water. America ventured out from under the covers again and England descended upon him, making him lie down properly and tucking him in.

"Thanks, mommy," America said, patting the cold cloth on his forehead – it soothed his headache quite a bit and made it easier to settle.

"If you must insist on referring to me by those idiotic maternal nicknames because I am kind enough to take care of you, can't you at least call me 'mummy'?" England sighed.

"Nope. A mummy is how Egypt used to preserve his dead, right? Silly England."

"Of course," England replied distractedly, straightening again. "Silly me."

It was such a peculiarity to be nursed by someone wearing a full army uniform; America could smell the leather and starch and brand new coarse cloth when England leaned close to him. It made him smell different to how he had last night, of course – the uniform made everything different, how he looked, how he felt, how he held himself. It made America want to reach for him, to grab him to make sure that he was really still there under the soldier's scar, because it reminded him of back then, back when he had been in blue and England had been in red and he hadn't thought about anything other than the freedom he had so desperately wanted, had come to acknowledge England only as a uniform, that hateful red like a drop of blood that wouldn't be scrubbed away; he had only remembered that England was England, _his_ England, under the unscrubbable red when he had sobbed in front of him—

Yes, it had been unwashable, he had scrubbed and scrubbed like Lady Macbeth, out, out damn spot out, and still it was on his hands and on his back; of course, he remembered back in the court when Shakespeare had first produced that play, how grimly satisfying it had been to his bloodthirsty masses—

America sat bolt upright with a gasp, followed by a swoon as his body punished him for moving too fast. England, who was over at the wardrobe hanging something up over the back of the door, turned to him; America hadn't even noticed him leave the bedside.

"What's wrong?" England asked, frowning at him.

"N-nothing." America shook his head and sank back to the bed again, readjusting his cloth. "Nothing. I'm fine."

England gave a snort.

"You're bound to see things that you don't like," he said, turning back to his task. "Of my memories, I mean to say."

America shivered miserably, feeling the tendrils of memories clinging to him but dissolving away whenever he focused too closely on one. It felt like he was trying to decipher someone else's dreams while waking up every few minutes.

"I didn't think they would start hacking into _mine_, though," he replied. "I was thinking about… well, about back then, you know, and I thought it was _my_ memory of it but… I guess it wasn't. I started remembering about _Shakespeare_."

"That would be one of mine," England sighed.

America looked at him; or at his back, at least. Green now, of course, not red, the new leather of his officer's belt shining as he moved; the whole thing fitted him very nicely, _too_ nicely, as though it was the only thing he was truly _meant_ to wear.

"What are you doing?" America asked, reaching for his water to take a cleansing sip.

"Sorting out your uniform." England stepped back from it to show it to its owner; it was hung perfectly on the hanger, clean and new and colored like sand. "I had it sent for. It's very like your other one from the Great War. What do you think?"

"It's lovely," America said flatly, not bothering to put on his glasses. "Will you put my hair in pigtails too, mommy?"

"Don't get smart with me. This is happening whether you like it or not."

"_You_ like it," America said in a low voice.

"No I don't. I merely knew that it was going to come to this." England looked at him again. "I wonder if you'll be well enough to go to France's tonight."

America blinked.

"Why would we be going to France's?"

"Oh, it was already arranged – it's just that Germany's actions have made this meeting rather more urgent. Originally it was to be a discussion about tactics and formations should it come to this. Now that it _has_, of course, we will be drawing up plans for our primary mobilizations. Ah, and writing our war declarations, of course."

"To go into effect immediately?"

"Well, either tomorrow or the day after if Germany does not respond to our demands that he retreat immediately from Poland's territory. France issued that this morning on behalf of the both of us."

"So where does that leave _me_?"

"Declaring war on him and Russia, I should think," England said curtly. "Should they prove to be stubborn, anyway." He narrowed his eyes at America. "That _is_ what you promised me, after all – that you weren't going to wait until the last minute this time."

"I know, I know," America sighed. "And I'm not going to go back on my word, it's just…"

"It's just what?" England left America's uniform and came back over to the bed.

"It's just, well… _you_." America glanced up at him briefly before averting his eyes again. "You go kind of… weird when there's a war. Sort of scarily enjoying it too much, like… like you get off on it or something."

Contrary to the reaction America had been expecting, England simply grinned at him.

"Do you not want to encourage me?" he teased. "Well, now you share all my sick little pleasures."

"Don't," America bit out, feeling the memories flare a bit under his eerie smile. "I don't want to be like you no matter how much I love you."

"Ah, we're a very different breed in Europe, aren't we?"

"Yeah, you are."

"Well, I promise not to masturbate over any dismembered corpses cut to pieces by glorious war."

America suddenly felt rather sick.

"That is _disgusting_!" he cried, pulling the covers over his head. "Shut up!"

"Did you not think I had it in me to say something like that?" England laughed. "You know, every now and then I like to rip off that gentleman's mask and fucking _breathe_, America."

"Oh, peace makes you suffocate?" America turned over under the sheets, putting his back to England even though he couldn't see him. "I'm not surprised. You're acting all ticked off about this Germany thing but I'll bet secretly you're actually pretty happy."

"Now don't be unfair," England chided – although he didn't sound terribly offended. He took hold of the covers and peeled them back; America glared up at him and then pointedly looked away. "I say, look here, you; you're sick, you're simply—"

"_You're_ sick," America retorted.

"Now you're just being spiteful for the sake of it. Lie down properly and get some rest – I daresay you're simply cranky because you're feeling somewhat under the weather. It's very childish of you, honestly."

America straightened himself up yet again, huffing as he did so; England fixed the cloth at his forehead and then trailed his hand down America's right arm, fingertips coming to rest at the little roll of cotton padding taped over where the needle had gone into his vein the night before. He took hold of the end of the tape, appearing to be about to pull it off, and America pulled his arm away.

"I want to keep it on the stem the bleeding," he said.

"The bleeding will have stopped by now."

"Just in case."

"Then at least let me replace it with a clean one." England reached for his arm again and America lashed out with his left and grabbed England's wrist, stopping him.

A very peculiar feeling jolted through him as his hand made contact with England; a strange cold draining feeling that washed right through him, fizzling at every nerve ending. Every fractured memory that had been jostling in his brain suddenly melted into a clear liquid understanding like ice beneath the sun, images and soundbites and shards of emotion condensing into… figures, calculations, _knowledge_. He closed his hand around England's wrist and suddenly knew him as well, as intimately, as he knew himself. He knew where every single one of his scars was and where it had come from, he knew which parts of his body corresponded to which parts of his land, he knew everything as though his mind had been completely replaced with England's.

England pulled and twisted, trying to haul his wrist back; America gave a sudden yank on him and sent him sprawling onto the bed, rolling with him so that they tumbled a few times until they stilled in a tangled heap with America – sweating and shivering and shuddering in only his boxers – on top, still clinging grim-death to England's wrist.

"America, I'm not playing these silly games with you," England said coldly, pushing at America's shoulders. "You're unwell and you need to rest. Get off me at once."

"Don't." America batted his hand away. "Let me touch you. I just… I understood _something_ there…"

England exhaled deeply through his nose but fell still on the bed, lying unresponsively like a ragdoll with only his jade eyes flickering after America's every motion. America finally let go of England's wrist in favor of running both hands over him, eerily aware that it felt like he was hovering over a mirror as his mind was merged with the man beneath him. His touch was very light and fleeting, skating over the shape of him and muttering to himself as though truly working out some kind of complex calculation – the sum of England, every bit of him fitting together like a jigsaw to make him what he was, weird or disgusting or sick or whatever else America chose to call him.

Heart, well, that was London, of course; his veins were the Thames and his arteries the Tyne; his mouth was Canterbury, where Chaucer had first written about in primitive Middle English; his eyes were York and Plymouth, never satisfied with what was right in front of them and constantly seeking new places to bear their names (places in America); his spine was Stratford-Upon-Avon, home to his greatest bard, his most perfect claim to fame that nobody could deny him even if they despised all he stood for; his shoulders and the sharp blades of them were Scotland, the dip of his collarbone Loch Ness; his left arm was Wales, his fingertips a language so old it was almost out of his reach and on the lines of his palm the stories of King Arthur and the crimson dragon in the coil of his muscles; there were traces of Ireland in his right arm, the twisted scars of Belfast at his elbow; his ribs were his industrialization, the bridges built from his birth; his hips Gloucestershire and his belly the Midlands and his navel the circle of Stonehenge; his thighs Devon and Cornwall; one foot Dover and the other Land's End.

It was all hidden, of course; hidden by that uniform but America didn't need to be able to touch his bare skin to know where things were, to feel the flashes of his scars prickle upon his _own_ skin like phantom sympathies. Washington D.C. pulsed within his own chest as London slammed away under his hands (_his_ hands were Virginia and Massachusetts, spreading and reaching West and skyward) and he traded battle-scar for battle-scar, national hero for national hero, writer for writer, the Alamo for the Hundred Years War and Washington for Wellington and Hawthorne for Dickens.

America gave a sigh and settled on top of England, burying his face against his neck and feeling very close and connected and comfortable with him. The memories had finally ceased to be an outside force attacking his psyche and instead they settled into immunity as long as he and England were together, the sickness held at bay by contact with its originator, history soothed by the touch of its motherland.

"What's the matter?" England asked quietly, reaching up to stroke his hair.

"Nothing," America replied. "Everything." He paused. "Nothing."

"It can't be both."

"It's stupid."

"Try me."

"You'll laugh. You'll tell me off. You'll say I have a one-track mind."

"Sex?"

"More than that," America insisted. "I want you inside me."

"I _am_ inside you," England said gently. "Far deeper than ever before – in every pore and cell and molecule of your body. I'm in your blood and your bones and your brain. You have let me in far more intimately than ever before. There will be no escaping me now that I'm within your heart, now that our rivers have merged and our histories have stitched themselves together in your mind. Sex is _nothing_ compared to what I did to you last night."

"It isn't that. I don't care how it feels. I don't care if you hurt me – if you don't caress me, if you don't tell me you love me. I just want you as close as you can be to me because it's all so… everything you gave me just seems so much _clearer_ when I touch you—"

"Do you think you're going to get some sort of _epiphany_, America?" England asked lazily, running his fingertips down America's bare spine.

"Is it too much to ask?"

"No – but I thought I was weird and disgusting and sick?"

"You _are_." America kissed England just under his ear, letting his heat soak through before lathing the skin with his tongue. He gave his ear a quick nip before pulling back. "You think I can't fucking feel it? I've had to take to my bed because I let you put your filthy blood inside me – but I knew it. I knew it before and it's never stopped me from letting you fuck me, has it?"

"Oh, you _do_ like to live dangerously, don't you?" England mocked, letting his hand trail further down to cup and squeeze America's ass. "Your recklessness rather shocks me. I'm disease-ridden too, you know."

"Hell, yeah, you are," America agreed, weight resting on his elbows on either side of England's head so that they were tauntingly close. "You've got that awful European disease – _war_."

"Could be worse," England replied blandly, unbuckling his belt. "Could be syphilis."

"You call that the French Disease," America rattled off, the knowledge coming to his tongue without him having to think; aware of England fidgeting about underneath him with brand-new buckles and zips.

"Very good. Of course, he's where _all_ diseases come from."

"That isn't fair."

"But it's true. He gave _you_ the disease called Revolution." England reached up and took hold of the waistband of America's underwear, beginning to slip them down. "The fever spiked in you first but you got it from him. Why, it was barely a decade before he was guillotining his own monarchs – and Russia was his ally at the time _he_ got the idea to gun down _his_."

"You can't blame France for everything." America obediently twisted his ankles, one at a time, out of his underwear at England's silent insistence, watching it go sailing to the floor; leaving him completely naked with all of his scars on show, both his own real ones and England's imagined ones. The sweat on his hot skin made him shiver, goosebumps prickling up his arms. He watched as England took a drizzle of oil in his palm, the sight of it making the fever gather and pool between his legs in excitement. "You can't just say whatever you—"

"Yes I can. Didn't I tell you last night?" England took America's hips and tilted them, lowered them, positioning him with a militaristic preciseness. They both moved with impatience, preparing for yet another connection on top of the one already circulating through them. "History is written by the victors. In my position, with my power, I can make up any lies I want."

"That doesn't make them true," America argued, putting his hands on England's chest to brace himself as England did the lining-up as though he was arranging a battle-front – practiced, precise but sort of uninterested, doing it so efficiently only because it was trained into him so exactly.

England shot him a very strange smile when he was satisfied.

"But it makes them matter," he said.

He pushed upwards; there was a moment of resistance and America bit his lip and adjusted his position, angling his hips differently because England had gotten it fractionally wrong, and then all of England was inside him in a sudden hard hot rush. America caught his breath and there was a jolt downwards as his weight pushed England back down to the bed, feeling him twist beneath him as they made full contact – he wasn't able to do much else, though, America too heavy for him to lift on the arching of his hips.

"Sorry," America said a low voice, panting. "Am I crushing you?"

England threw his arm over his eyes, breathing deeply himself, America feeling the clench of his stomach muscles every time he exhaled.

"Not the way my history is crushing you," he replied quietly.

America could only nod, already feeling a bead of sweat slide down his temple and over his cheek; there was a breathless burning in his veins even as the sensation of frost cracking crawled over his flesh, connecting every nerve ending with a jolt of electricity so that he almost felt them light up. His ghost scars seared and his skin was shockingly sensitive, the shift of England's coarse uniform and leather straps and cold buckles scraping and bursting against his observation, and he felt England inside him but also didn't – as though they had merged and become one, their bodies indistinguishable from one another. He saw England move underneath him but didn't feel it, each thrust resonating in his brain instead of his balls, bringing color and light and scent and taste and memory to each borrowed image, to each stolen experience. He heard the clash of armor and the roar of cannons; he smelt the heady salt of the sea and the bitterness of gunpowder, tasted blood and regulation rum, felt bullets burn flesh and the swing of a sword at his neck and suddenly the world flipped over and over as he rolled away—

America leaned back with another gasp, clapping a hand protectively against his own throat; he stared down at England in bewilderment, stilling completely but for the heaving of his chest.

"You've had your head cut off," he rushed out, still dizzy from the tumble; he looked at England's neck – it was the one place he didn't seem to have a scar.

England lifted his arm from his face and tilted his head as he looked up at America, his eyes very bright and green and interested.

"Have I?" he asked lazily, rotating his hips to continue the motion. America ignored it and continued on, too horrified by what he had just felt to be distracted.

"It's… it's in your memories, I just saw it – I just _felt_ it!"

"That doesn't mean it happened."

"Why the fuck would you _remember_ something that didn't happen?" America demanded, still not taking his hand from his own throat; he could still feel the echo of the ache and wondered who had done it.

"Who is to say that I would remember something correctly even if it did happen?" England countered. "History is full of lies."

"Don't talk all cryptic!" America snapped, leaning over him. "You're just avoiding the question."

"No I'm not. Whether it happened or not is really neither here nor there – the fact is, America, that even if I were to address the issue less cryptically, you probably still wouldn't understand."

"What wouldn't I understand?" America bit out. "I'm young but I'm not _that_ young—"

"I'm not disputing the fact that you have history of your own – although that _is_ exactly the point I am trying to make. History can be disputed."

"Not if it's true," America insisted. "You can't just make stuff up and say it's history but if it really happened then there's no denying its historical worth."

"I beg to differ." England reached for America's cock and wrapped his hand around it, making him keen through his teeth at the sensation of it. "Take, for example, this: In the Beginning, God created Heaven and Earth. Would you call that a historical fact?"

"N-no, because…" America bit his bottom lip, trying not to rock too much into England's touch – to play into his hands, so to speak. "B-because that's… it's not… not _true_."

"Says who? You?" England propped himself up on one elbow, sliding his fingers firmly up and down America's length, tracing the vein on the underside with his nails and pressing his fingertips against the root of it. "Does that make it false – just because _you_ said so?"

"W-we know better than th-that now," America hissed. "D-don't be so… goddamn difficult, England, you know as… as well a-as I do that God d-didn't create the world in… in seven days!"

"I don't know anything of sort," England countered. "I just don't believe it."

"Th-that's the same!"

"No it isn't – and me simply not believing it doesn't make it false. The fact is that several people that we know well would dispute with you that it is perfectly true. Roman Catholics, you see: Italy, Romano, Spain, perhaps even France…"

"It's Medieval thinking!" America burst out, aware that he was making England's hand very wet; he could barely breathe, his temperature spiking higher and higher with every fleeting touch of England's fingers, pushing and pressing him closer to a dry desperate finish.

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere," England hummed in agreement. "It's perfectly Medieval – and, in the Medieval times, I too would have said that it was a historical fact. In fact, I'd have had you burnt at the stake as a heretic for daring to say otherwise. Whether I was wrong then and right now – or right then and wrong now – is of no consequence. The important thing to acknowledge is that my _perception_ of what is true has changed; and the fact that it changed at all is proof that history cannot be trusted."

England swiped his thumb over the head of America's dick with a sudden preciseness while simultaneously jerking his hips up and America came in his hand with a breathy cry, shuddering and slumping forwards and only stopping himself from collapsing completely by clutching at England's uniform lapels. He lifted his head, his gold hair hanging in sweat-soaked strands in front of his eyes, obscuring his sight even more than his usual shortsightedness; still, he couldn't fail to notice England licking his hand clean, doing so with the precision of a cat so that he lapped up every last drop.

Suddenly feeling very empty, even though England was still in him, America watched him do it, fighting to get his breath back.

"So… so you think… you can rewrite things and… and make up lies to cover up the truth and say things happened when they didn't… and say things didn't happen when they did?" he asked in a low voice.

"Well, that's history. That's how it works."

"No it isn't."

"Yes it is. I doubt King Arthur fought with a sword given to him by a lady who lived in a lake but history says he did so people believe it, no matter how improbable. There's no reason it can't work the other way around, you know." England sat up and leaned towards him, smirking. "You didn't just come."

America flushed hotly, shifting so he was cradled in England's lap, still connected to him.

"Yes I did," he said. "I came in your hand."

England held up the hand in question – which was, of course, completely clean.

"Prove it," he replied.

"I… I just saw you lick it off!" America snapped.

England laughed and sank back to the bed again, pitching America forward to follow the movement.

"But maybe I don't believe you, you see?" he sighed, getting comfortable. "Bloody bloody history. That's the trouble. It's _all_ lies – even the truth. Only perception, and the power to enforce one perception over another, makes any of it worth a thing."

America shifted; England wasn't moving at all, making no effort to do anything about his own finish, apparently satisfied with what he'd achieved already.

"Then why do we believe it?" America asked quietly, looking at England's neck again – where he may or may not have been beheaded.

England patted America's thigh.

"We don't," he answered, "do we?"

* * *

"No matter what you promised your little friend," Russia drawled, "this _is_ very much about revenge, is it not?"

He pushed the glass across Poland's kitchen table towards Germany; it was just the two of them for now. It was Prussia's turn to guard the door of Poland's bedroom and, having been sent in that direction by Germany ten minutes ago, had called for Italy to join him to "keep him company". Italy, naïvely thinking that Prussia really _did_ want his company and not simply someone to tease and harass to ease his boredom whilst sitting outside Poland's door, had gone trotting after him, chattering away happily about an art museum he had once visited with his brother and Spain.

"You're suggesting that I lied to Italy?" Germany replied stiffly, taking the glass of vodka and holding it in tense hands.

"Not lied," Russia said, taking a deep swig straight from the bottle. "Evaded. Embellished. Would those be the right words? Forgive me – my German is poor."

"Your German is perfectly acceptable," Germany said, looking down at the clear liquid flashing in Poland's crystal glass.

"Then I am correct?"

"Not exactly. I _do_ want to change things." Germany propped up his chin on his hand. "I can't help but feeling that things would be better if everyone was united beneath one flag, beneath one ideology – why not mine? I am calm, hard-working and industrious. I am not frivolous like Spain or flamboyant like France or arrogant like England. I have annexed Austria but he does not seem to be particularly angry about it – he and I are close in our ways of thinking, after all, and I have come to conclude that _he_ thinks that it would be better for him if he were to be under my flag, too. I am under the impression that Hungary feels the same way. England gave me Czechoslovakia to try and head off my indignation but I will not be bought out by either him or France, not after the humiliation they have put me through." Germany clenched his fists. "They specifically designed the Treaty of Versailles to cripple me, thinking I was an idiot who could be told that it was for my own benefit. I have worked hard to get myself out of debt, to make myself great again. If everyone worked as hard as I, even against the odds as I did, the world would be a better place. I despise France and England for what they did to me in 1919 but I feel that I have learned many lessons from the hardships that came with the punishment they gave me. _I_ should be the one to light the world's way into a new era."

Russia gave an interested nod.

"And what about the little one?" he asked.

"Italy?" Germany gave a shrug. "He is very attached to me. I captured him during the Great War and he declared himself my friend and ally. There is… more to it than that but, for the most part, that is the sum of our relationship."

"He is idealistic."

"Yes, he is."

"He reminds me very much of America," Russia went on.

Germany nodded, choosing his words carefully.

"I suppose I can see the resemblance in the personality, at least," he agreed. "Ideology, not so much. America is Capitalist; Italy is Fascist. Italy is far more compatible with my way of thinking than America would ever be."

"I agree," Russia said, "for I, too, will never be great friends with America. His way of thinking combats mine at every turn."

"He is like England in his way of thinking," Germany concurred, feeling a bit more comfortable after Russia's admission. "I feel, even, that my dislike of him is just an echo of my dislike of England."

"But yet you, too, are like England." Russia took another mouthful of vodka. "It is as Poland says. England is an Empire – he thinks as one, he behaves as one. However _you_ dress up your desire to create this new world of your grand design, in the end your behavior mirrors England – who, too, thought that his way of thinking was so wonderful and so correct that it should be impressed on others."

"There were riches on the cards, too, where England was concerned." Germany pointed out, already having gone over these arguments countless times in his head.

"And that does not interest you?"

"Not particularly," Germany replied honestly. "I simply want to give the world the gift of what I have learned from hardship. If everyone kicks and screams as Poland did, then the road will be long and difficult and bloody – but I am willing to see it through to the end."

"And perhaps some subjugation of your enemies would not hurt either," Russia said with a sickly smile.

Germany gave a snort and finally threw back a mouthful of vodka, shuddering as it went searing down his throat. He could hold his liquor with the best of them but the sterile refined proof was such a strange contrast to his flavorfully earthy beer.

"I can't be the only one who wants to slap France or knock America off his perch before he manages to get airborne or have that bastard British Empire on _his_ knees for once," he said, exhaling the words along with the fumes of alcohol.

Russia's smile sweetened further.

"Of course not," he agreed. "To crush America, to feel his bones cracking and splintering beneath my foot, would be most satisfying."

"I had no idea you hated him that much," Germany muttered, tracing the rim of his cup with one gloved finger.

"Oh," Russia said, looking up at the ceiling, "it is simply as I say: America and I will never be friends."

"And England? I know you and he have never gotten along particularly well either."

"Ah, yes. Do you know what I would like to do to England? Imagine getting your hands beneath someone's collarbone and taking hold of it and then pulling so that you tore the entire ribcage apart and open. I'd cut out his organs one by one while he begged for mercy and position them all around him like his territories and colonies and then I'd leave him to bleed out and die all alone."

Germany looked at him briefly.

"I doubt it would kill him," he said at length.

Russia beamed.

"Probably not," he agreed. "I'd like to do it anyway, though – wouldn't you?"

—

"Do you really believe that stuff?" Prussia asked, leaning over Italy's shoulder and looking down at the pages of his beloved Italian Bible, worn and frayed to a comforting softness around the edges.

"Of course." Italy blinked up at him. "Don't you?"

Prussia snorted, half-laughing at the ridiculous notion.

"Of course _not_," he said, looking away again. "It's all nonsense, stupid."

"I'm sad that you think that," Italy said forlornly. "Germany always likes it when I read to him. He likes Genesis and the stories about when the world was new. He said he wants to create a world like that – new and clean and purged where we can all live together happily."

Prussia put his hands up behind his head and leaned back against Poland's locked door.

"Huh, West thinks he's God now, does he?" He rolled his eyes. "Still, I'm not surprised he spun _you_ that – cashing in on you believing that some guy with a beard created a world for us all to frolic and prance in while picking wildflowers."

Italy clutched his Bible to his chest.

"God _did_ create the world," he said, his voice oddly fierce. "Big Brother Spain says so and so does the Bible – and Germany is going to remake the world just like it and it'll be perfect!"

Italy got up and stalked away: Prussia had forgotten the fiery temperament, mostly because Italy was usually too oblivious to realize that he was being insulted. Still, there it was. Prussia was almost impressed that he'd managed to piss Italy off – Romano he wasn't, that was for sure…

"God created a perfect world?" Prussia muttered, lying down in the hall and kicking Poland's door a few times for good measure. "Yeah, more like he coughed up a diseased lung – just like West is going to, no doubt."

"Then, like, why are you even here?" Poland asked through the door; he had given up on screaming and yelling and kicking and banging and was now just leaning against the other side of the door, tired and worn down.

"Because," Prussia began irritably; he paused, considering the weight of his words.

_Oh, the hell with it_, he thought bitterly.

"Because," he said, "sticking close to remind him to write me into history is the only way I'll survive." He gave a sigh and closed his crimson eyes. "Last time around I wasn't so lucky."

* * *

…So let's just say that some of the players in this know a little more than others.

**On religion: **So we thought it would be interesting to explore the different religious values of some of the countries in this fic. It sort of arranges itself in three tiers: The top band would be the likes of Italy/Romano and Spain (very Catholic countries even today); the middle band would be England, America and France, all of which consider themselves to be "Christian" countries but do not have religion as deeply steeped into their national identity in the 20th Century; the bottom band is Germany and Prussia and probably countries like Austria, etc., all of which have religious pasts but with religion itself becoming rather left behind and not factoring much in cultural identity in the 20th Century.

We're still trying to work out where Russia fits into all this. It's not that religion is a massively big deal in this fanfic – this chapter is probably the most that it will be dealt with, at least for a while – but that fact that different beliefs can cause conflict between characters that represent entire nations/countries was something we felt should be addressed. As England says, too, religious belief and practice is something that alters with time; Medieval Britain, for example, was VERY Christian. Mary I, known as Bloody Mary, got her name from burning Protestants charged with heresy against the church – however, from the reign of Elizabeth I, Britain has always been Protestant and we haven't burnt anybody at the stake for the wrong religious beliefs for quite a few centuries!

As for America, his denouncing the story of Genesis as truth wasn't him saying that he didn't believe in God, only that he didn't believe that the world was created in seven days. Regardless of your own beliefs, it seemed wrong to me (as I said in my argument to Narroch regarding this) that America would be atheist given that some American coins have 'In God We Trust' written on them and American politicians often end their speeches with "God Bless America". (And as an aside, a piece of official artwork appearing in the published _Hetalia_ manga does actually show America wearing a cross around his neck. Not that that really means anything in this day and age, when the cross has become a £4/$8 trinket sold in Claire's Accessories, but my point stands even so…)

Speaking of all this, 'Am anfang schuf Gott Himmel und Erde' is, of course, the German for 'In the beginning, God created Heaven and Earth'. ^^

Eh, I think that is it. Narroch wanted to add ANs but admitted that all she wanted to do was make fun of me, so…

Ladies and gentlemen, it is officially **TEN DAYS** to Halloween! ^^ Ah, how I _love_ Halloween. As usual, I have a little something special planned for the holiday – this year, too, Narroch and I will be at **YaoiCon** in San Francisco over Halloween weekend! Anyone else going? =)

Well, in advance, Happy Halloween! Hope you all enjoyed our second chapter! We're getting to the disappearing-from-history thing promised in the summary, don't worry…

RobinRocks and Narroch

xXx


	3. The Lion and the Unicorn

Hey everyone, **Narroch** here doing the ANs this time. I kinda bullied RR into updating today more because it is my favorite holiday than any other reason (she wanted to wait till Christmas! D:). Thanksgiving has nothing to do with this particular story, except maybe some characters should be slightly more grateful than others, given what's about to happen. XD RR, of course, doesn't care either way cause they don't get to celebrate a day of legitimated gluttony and lofty gratitude over in the UK anyway. Sucks for them.

A HUGE thankyou to all our readers and a special shout out to everyone who reviewed! **chibiaries, SutaakiHitori, jesusofsuburbia2o2o, suzako, riiyacub, hoshiko2kokoro, BakayaroManiac, sacredpools, Divadcreator, backseat compromises, , WhiteCrow10, rae1112, Koi Fish, Genki-angel-chan, Mister Peaches, andthenshesaid, sarcastic moron, hexazebra, **and** Synonymous Brian**!

You guys rock.

_Pangaea_

The Lion and the Unicorn

America pressed his forehead to the mirror for a long moment, his glasses clacking against the surface, as he paused in getting dressed; his head still pounded, the blood pulsing menacingly in his temples as he moved, as he breathed. The headache was definitely slinking back in, as was the swelling nausea that had never completely left anyway; his hands shook even when he fisted them, his vision swam through viscous blurs intermittently, he felt light-headed if he did anything too quickly—

But it was getting dark and he had finally gathered the strength to haul his quivering carcass out of bed after sleeping for another couple of hours in the afternoon and then eating the questionable broth (that was what the thin, faintly-sour liquid had allegedly been, anyway) that England had brought up to him about an hour ago.

His hot skin misted up the mirror a little, visible vapors of the fever that still refused to break completely; he opened his eyes just as he exhaled and the glass clouded up completely so that he watched his reflection vanish behind his breath as though he had been swallowed into nothingness.

Ha. That was a fucking joke. It sure didn't feel like he'd been swallowed into nothingness when his skull ached fit to burst with a history that wasn't his, only calming and settling to a slow enough simmer to let him think properly when England touched him or, at the very least, came within about a foot of him – as though his body was automatically borrowing England's ease and practice with his own memories.

Which was inconvenient. He couldn't very well follow England around all day and grab a handful of his hair every time he needed to make a decision; besides, England complained that he tripped over America enough as it was.

He sighed and leaned back and finished knotting his tie before reaching for his uniform jacket and shrugging it on; it was thick and heavy and he felt much too warm for it, already wanting to take it off even as he buttoned it. England came into the bedroom, carrying something wrapped in black plastic, and stood watching him as he put on his belt.

"What you got there?" America asked, nodding at the package in England's arms as he worked blindly at his buckle.

"A little present for you," England replied absently, plucking at the plastic himself.

"Oh, gee, it's not a stick-on target, is it?" America grinned at him. "So they shoot at me while you get away?"

England snapped his fingers.

"Damn," he said blandly. "If only I'd thought of that." He threw the parcel at America, who caught it clumsily. "Here. I hope it fits you."

America turned the package over in his hands, looking for a way to open it; it was heavy but supple, sort of soft, and he had a warm feeling he knew what it was. He found the seal on the plastic and tore it open, pulling it off and holding the folded, brand-new leather flight jacket in both hands.

"How did you know?" he asked expressionlessly.

"Did you think I didn't see you jealously eyeing up the Royal Air Force pilots during the Great War from the moment you saw them?" England asked airily, leaning against the doorframe. He nodded towards the jacket, still clutched covetously in America's hands. "Well, try it on, then."

"Right, yeah, of course!" America ripped off the size tag from the inside label and unzipped the jacket, slinging it behind him and pulling it on; again, he was much too warm for it but he couldn't help admiring himself in it in the mirror nonetheless, looking at his reflection from every possible angle. It was a perfect fit, flattering his form as though it had been tailored especially for him.

"Hey, England, what do you think?" he asked, turning to him. "Do I look like a hero?"

Instead of rolling his eyes like America had expected him to, England actually smiled at him.

"You'd pass, I suppose," he said. "It's the standard RAF jacket, of course, so it differs from the American design."

"Uh huh." America nodded; it was primarily the same jacket as the US Air Force's but it had a few aesthetic differences like four pockets, fur on the cuffs to match the collar and it was slightly shorter with a higher waist comprised of a thick band of elastic so that it hugged close to the body and kept in the heat. "I like it, though."

"Good," England said. "You're welcome, then."

He pushed off the doorframe again and left the bedroom; America winced a bit because England had said "You're welcome" before America himself had actually said "Thankyou" and that didn't usually bode well given that England only did that when he was making a point about America's manners (which didn't reflect terribly well on England himself, all things considered, when you recalled exactly who had taught America his manners in the first place…).

God, it was too hot for this jacket – for _both_ of these jackets. He puffed a breath upwards, making a few fronds of blonde hair flutter, as he checked himself over in the mirror. All that was missing was his garrison cap, which he snatched up from the dresser and shoved into his pocket as he left the bedroom and started down the hallway in search of sulky stroppy England.

He found him without much difficulty on his knees in the small room at the back of the house that he used for storage, rummaging through a large wooden chest and muttering to himself about having sworn he had put it here back in 1918.

"Hey," America said, standing in the doorway with his hands behind his back, "thanks for the bomber jacket, doll."

It had been a test – and it was testament enough that England was distracted when he merely flapped his hand over his shoulder and muttered "You're welcome, love" without objecting in the slightest to being called "doll".

America stepped into the cluttered room, glancing about. It was dusty and dark and full of stuff – it reminded him of his own storage space at home.

The one he had still never gotten around to clearing.

Ah, and it was full of memories – of history. All of these old things in here, sitting lonely on shelves, coated with grime, colored by neglect, were like the things which _he_ never had the heart to throw away when he stumbled upon them in his own storage room. Every item had a story, every last thing had once been England's, had had a place in his routine, in his hand, in his life; and for that reason, when America stepped over the threshold, the buzzing and aching and scraping inside his skull quelled, his borrowed memories soothed by his presence in a room full of the objects that occupied them.

It was like being _surrounded_ by England himself, as though his physicality had molded itself into a room, and America could suddenly breathe, suddenly _think_.

Still, his attention was nonetheless drawn back to England himself, who was practically waist-deep in the chest, so serious was his hunt.

"What are you doing?" America asked curiously.

"Looking for my peace agreement with Germany from the end of the Great War," England said irritably, surfacing from the chest empty-handed and sitting back with an air of defeat. "I thought I put it in here."

America shook his head at him, smiling regardless.

"You're so spacey," he said fondly. "You're always losing things."

"I am not!" England huffed. "I merely forget where I put things."

"_Yeah_, that's… that's kind of the same thing as losing them," America pointed out. "Shall I help you look?"

"Please," England sighed. "I feel that I should look over it before writing my Declaration of War in case I'm breaching any of our agreements by doing so. I'm not letting that damn jerry get one over on me on a technicality, by George."

"You see," America said, kneeling down and pulling the nearest crate towards himself, "if you and Germany weren't both so goddamn meticulous in the first place, you could just go in there with guns a-blazing and tanks a-roaring and planes a-bombing. You know, like I do."

"I know," England muttered. "It's a tragic thing that Germany and I used to be great friends – and were so primarily because we're both, ah, _so goddamn meticulous_, as you put it."

He drawled America's words in an attempt at his accent, making America laugh as he opened his crate.

"Right," he agreed, waving away some dust as he put aside the lid. "I bet you guys sat by the fire together, drinking beer and counting money and making lists of exactly how many gold and silver coins you had and how much they weighed and what year they were from."

"You're not far wrong."

"Really?" America whistled. "Wow, what a boring friendship."

"Yes, it was, rather."

"Lucky you have me now, right?"

"Oh, absolutely. Your dazzling intelligence and humble modesty aside, you're not a half-bad shag, either."

"Oh, come _on_!" America was actually a little insulted. "That was totally uncalled for! _Way_ below the belt, meanie!"

"Alright, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"Damn straight you didn't. I'm an amazing, ah, _shag_, as you put it."

"But not modest."

"Hey, nobody's perfect."

A lot more cheerful and less sick to his stomach now that he didn't have at least three of England's memories vying for center-stage in his mind every time he tried to engage his brain, America whistled a trilling little tune to himself as he started to go through the crate. At the top were a few old books, the seams barely hanging together, and he carefully lifted them out and put them aside because he knew they were probably only up here to keep them from taking any further damage from whatever elements that happened to drift near the bookshelf; beneath them was a grubby sheet, which he peeled back to reveal—

"Hey, wow, you kept this?"

"I obviously kept whatever it is you've found if you've found it," England said flatly, but he turned to him nonetheless and frowned at the little black and white photograph in its old black lacquer frame that America was brandishing at him.

"This is from my world's fair in 1893!" America said happily, tilting the picture to look at it himself again.

It was of the pair of them, stiff and traditional in the way of photography in the 1890s, dressed in their best, the very height of late Victorian fashion, and with every article and accessory just-so and perfectly-positioned; unnatural, really, carefully-posed and almost unsmiling, England sitting too stiffly for it to be comfortable, one leg crossed over the other far more elegantly than he usually slung it, and America standing close behind him, one hand on England's shoulder and the fingers of his other curved gently over the back of the armchair. There was a small, elaborate table with an exotic plant of some kind next to the chair but the background – a grand parlor – had been fake, America remembered, nothing but a picture on a screen. The photography studio had been one of the attractions at the fair and they had had theirs done near the end. America had said he wanted to create some physical documentation that England had showed up at all and England had obliged him but the resulting picture was pretty miserable.

"That serious look doesn't suit you," England noted, tilting his head to see the photograph. "You look a lot handsomer when you smile."

"Yeah," America agreed. "You know, so do you." He glanced up at England, who simply rolled his eyes irritably at him. "No, you really do! You should stop scowling so much before your face gets stuck that way or something! Ha, or maybe it's too late?"

England sighed and went back to his fruitless search.

"I've plenty to scowl about," he muttered.

America shook his head at him despairingly and put the photograph aside, pulling back another layer of dirty sheet to find a painting, rather a lot bigger than the photo.

"Okay, yeah," he said after staring at it for a while. He reached in and carefully took hold of it by the narrow frame, taking it out of the crate and turning it towards England. "Look how handsome you are when you smile."

England only looked at it briefly.

"It's a painting, America," he said dismissively. "Beauty is in the eye of the artist – and the brush. It's exaggerated. A lot."

"England, it looks _just_ like you," America said impatiently. "It really does. Just, you know… younger."

"I was a teenager when that was painted. It's from about 1410."

"Jeez, it's older than me…"

America turned the painting back towards himself and rested it on his knees so that he could look at it again. It was a stunning painting, lavish and rich in its colors and with firm, confident brushstrokes that perfectly captured light and shadow, the delicacy of lace and the lush swell of velvet and the slight frame of its young subject. The composition was simple, just England sitting in a rather plain chair in what would probably have been casual clothes for a court-dweller back then, but the whole thing looked so natural compared to that stiff and staged photograph from centuries later. It was a painting, yes, put there not by a mirror and a flash but by careful study, by the right stroke here and the right dab there, but it held the presence of life better than that black and white shot, so much so that America recognized England immediately from a canvasful of mixed paint even though he was much younger in this portrayal. He was definitely a teenager, the size and shape of his body giving him away as an adolescent, the sort of awkward way his bones fell even as he draped himself comfortably across his seat; but his smile was the same and so were his eyes, the color of paint used a perfect match to the hue of brilliant jade that now busied themselves with hunting for some stupid peace agreement a few feet away.

"This is…" America breathed out and searched for the right word. "…Amazing. It's almost _like_ a photograph."

"You say that but you have no idea what I actually looked like back then," England said.

"This is _obviously_ what you looked like!" America snapped, beginning to get annoyed. "Good Lord, you smile so rarely that nobody could have gotten it right if they'd guessed it and yet this is _perfect_!"

"Alright, alright, it's a bloody _magnificent_ painting of me when I was a teenaged sprog," England groaned, finally shuffling over to him and settling at his side. "I'm sure Italy would be very happy to know that you appreciate his art – you know, if we weren't about to declare war on him."

America blinked, reevaluating it in a new light.

"_Italy_ painted this?"

"Yes."

"_North_ Italy?"

"Yes."

"I'm stunned."

"Oh, he has his talents, believe it or not." England shrugged. "I've never been friends with him, exactly, but I've been in his presence a few times." He gestured at the painting. "I accompanied France to Austria's house once back around then and Italy was there. He was bored and wanted to paint me. I was bored so I let him. I didn't realize he was so good at art until I saw it finished. He showed me all his other paintings as well – he'd painted everyone in Austria's house, some of them several times over, he'd painted Prussia, France, Spain, Romano, Portugal… and they were all as good, if not _better_, than that one you have right there." England smirked suddenly. "All exaggerated, of course, but Italy likes the aesthetic. He makes the world prettier with his paintbrush and who's going to complain?"

"Huh." America glanced at the gorgeous painting again; he too had had no idea that idiotic North Italy had talent like this lurking inside him. "If… uh, I mean _when_ we capture him, I'm gonna make him paint _me_. Wearing my new bomber jacket, of course."

"Oh, he'll do a beautiful painting of _you_," England agreed warmly. "And I'll take it and put it on my wall and then I can look at you whenever I like without having to actually put up with you. It'll be nice and quiet, too, being a painting."

"Ha ha," America drawled sardonically, "like he'd give you his magnum opus."

"You're not _Italy's_ magnum opus, America," England said, almost sounding impatient, as though having to explain something very simple for about the hundredth time. "You're mine."

"Oh yeah?" America challenged. "Well, it's all fine for you to take the credit for all the good things I've done but that also means you have to take the blame for the bad."

"You mean that I would have to take responsibility for you?"

"Right." America grinned. "If you're up to it."

"Then that's what I'll do."

"You'd invest yourself in me like that?" America asked quietly, taken aback by the fact that England had answered him seriously and without hesitation. "In my deeds and in my history?"

"That's what you've done for me, my boy." England put a hand on America's shoulder and used him to push himself to his feet; he moved his hand to the small of his back as he straightened up and America heard something click. "Ugh, I'm getting too old for crawling around on my hands and knees…"

"Doesn't _war_ involve a lot of crawling around on your hands and knees, like, under barbed wire?" America pointed out flatly.

"An unfortunate side-effect of war, yes." England stretched. "That's probably what did my bloody back in in the first place."

America watched him over the top of the painting; England was rather small for an adult man (although America had to admit that _he_ was exceptionally tall and dwarfed England even more by comparison) but he was fairly strong despite his size. Oh, perhaps he didn't have America's freakish strength – the one that enabled the younger man to lift a car over his head if he was ticked enough – but America could see the muscles move under England's uniform as he flexed his shoulders, which themselves weren't exactly what one would regard as powerful but there was definitely something… _predatory_ about the mechanism of them, particularly when he prowled restlessly if bored or agitated.

Like he did when there was no war on.

America was desensitized to England and always had been and so sometimes he forgot how dangerous he could be. He tried not to think about England's bloody history coursing irreversibly around his own body as he put the painting of the teenaged pre-Empire aside and went back into the crate a third time, looking for something to distract himself with.

"America, I don't think my peace agreement is in there," England said, drifting over towards one of the shelves and picking up an old flintlock pistol to examine.

"No, I know," America said, digging to the bottom, where a flash of gold had caught his eye. "But I'm just curious to see what else you got in this here treasure-trove. Maybe some priceless Ming vase you stole from China when he wasn't looking or something…"

"China would never have been so inattentive when it came to his vases, I can assure you."

"Really?" America took hold of his prize and tugged at it. "He seems kind of easily-distracted to me."

"Not when it comes to his vases. Or food." England frowned at America over the pistol. "Besides, that's rather rude coming from _you_. Your attention span is so horrendously short that I thought there was something wrong with your hearing for the first few months I had you in my care."

"It's not my fault you were boring even back then." America lifted out his find with an appreciative whistle, knowing what it was without having to ask. He _remembered_ it. "Well well well, looky what we have here."

England glanced at it.

"Oh," he said blandly. "It's my royal coat of arms."

"Hell yeah it is," America agreed. "Is that real gold on the lion?"

"Of course. And it's hand-carved and painted, too."

"And so it's rotting back here in your storage-room… _why_?"

"Ah, I can't help thinking it's a bit gaudy for a house ornament," England said. "I have a small printed version of it in a frame over the mantelpiece and that's enough for me."

"But you love unicorns!" America exclaimed. "And this one has a solid gold horn and everything!"

"It _is_ beautiful," England agreed with a sigh, "but I don't want it on my wall. Besides, it's worth a fortune. It's better to keep it safe in here."

America gave a snort.

"When did you go all minimalist and tasteful, Mr. British Empire?" He felt at the back of the carving and found a heavy brass hook. "Well, let's hang it up right in here so we can admire it properly."

He rose and took the crest over to the first nail sticking haphazardly out of the wall that his eyes fell on, hanging it on the barb of metal and letting it swing gently back and forth until it settled.

"So," America said, putting his hands on his hips in a satisfied manner as he looked at his slapdash handiwork, "a gift from an admirer?"

"One of my monarchs, actually," England replied, coming to his side again with the old pistol swinging idly on his right forefinger. "Victoria – to commemorate the first usage of the new royal coat of arms in 1837."

They both looked at the coat of arms in silence for a long moment – elaborately-carved wood in the elegant shapes of a lion and a unicorn either side of another small lion atop a crown, a knight's helmet and an encircled rendition of Great Britain's royal emblem and then, beneath it all on a curling carved ribbon, the French words _Dieu et mon droit_.

"There's French on your coat of arms," said America.

"Shut up," said England.

There was another moment of silence.

"I'm not surprised that you have a unicorn on it," America went on at length.

England glanced briefly at him.

"I didn't _design_ it," he said scathingly, "so you can stop with your snide little comments right there."

"Snide?" America pouted exaggeratedly at him. "Oh, don't be like that. I was _just saying_—"

"Well, kindly refrain from _just saying_."

"Oh, God, _why_ are you so grouchy? Lighten _up_!" America moaned at him; he turned to England and seized him about the waist, easily lifting him as he took him by surprise. England was solider, heavier, than he looked but America was massively strong and was to able to stretch his arms out to their fullest length above his head, holding England as high as he possibly could so that the top of his skull almost brushed the dusty beams of the ceiling – as though he was outgrowing this small room of memories and had had to look elsewhere for a place to put them.

"America, I am not a child and won't be won over by you pretending that I'm an aeroplane," England said flatly. "Put me down at once."

"Nah." America stuck out his tongue at him. "I've got a great view from down here."

England whacked him on the top of head with the butt of the pistol.

"Ow!" America dropped him enough so that their faces were level, enabling him to properly scowl at him. "Did you just pistol-whip me?"

"If I'd pistol-whipped you, you'd be missing a few teeth," England said sweetly.

"For that, I am _not_ putting you down," America said, wrapping his arms more securely around England's waist; in order for them to be at face-level, England's feet were still quite a few inches off the ground and America was in danger of getting his shins kicked but he didn't care.

"Is that so?" England smirked at him and promptly put the gun to his temple.

"Is that thing loaded?" America asked, faltering a little.

"I have no idea," England replied airily. "Shall we find out?"

"Yeah, let's do that."

America leaned forwards as England blinked at him in surprise, insistently pressing his mouth onto his; he closed his eyes, trusting England to not try and blow his brains out with a two hundred year old gun and hoping that it was trust not misplaced, and relaxed, victorious, as he felt the cool barrel lift away from his temple and England instead thread his arms about America's neck to deepen the kiss. He found that he had to hitch England up a little bit to keep his grip on him, the older man suddenly not holding himself quite so rigidly in America's arms. The gun was, however, still in England's hand – America felt it touch his ear as England held it loosely, far more invested in the tangled wetness of the kiss, in sort of half-heartedly wrapping one of his legs around America's hips.

"There," America huffed, pulling back for air. "I… I always knew you were… easily-distracted."

"Eh?" England grinned at him. "You're not going to steal my vases, are you?"

"Naw." America glanced at the coat of arms. "I might steal _that_, though."

"Hmm?" England turned his head to look at it himself. "Do you like it all that much?"

"It reminds me of something," America admitted. "Some old rhyme you used to tell me when I was a kid."

England looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Ah," he said at length, "that would be, of course, _The Lion and the Unicorn_. It's a nursery rhyme written about the union of the two creatures into one symbol in the early 1700s. It's silly, of course, as nursery rhymes are."

"I liked it," America insisted. "You still remember it, right?"

"Of course I do. It goes 'The Lion and the Unicorn were fighting for the crown; The Lion beat the Unicorn all around the town. Some gave them white bread and some gave them brown; Some gave them plum cake and drummed them out of town'."

"The lion _beat_ the unicorn?"

"All around the town, yes."

"Huh." America studied the crest for a long moment. "I guess I can see that. Look at that lion – he's ready to go. He's ready for a fight, even if there isn't one. Crazy old English lion, teeth and claws bared all the freaking time…"

England looked at him amusedly.

"Oh my, America," he said, "are you being metaphorical? Be still my heart."

"Tch, like I ever think that hard about anything," America said evasively. "Besides, my money's on old Uni there anyway."

"But he's been beaten all around the town," England reminded him. "And the "crazy old English lion" has teeth and claws, if you recall."

"Unicorn's got a horn, though," America replied. "'Sides, he's not a quitter. He's all chained up so it's not even a fair fight and he's _still_ not gonna back down. He's my kind of guy. I'd put a hundred bucks on him any day."

England smiled at him and finally let the ancient rust-locked pistol slide off his finger; it clattered heavily to the plain dusty floorboards at America's feet.

"Brave, true and noble unicorn, chained up only because he's so strong," England said, pushing up in America's arms to press a kiss onto his forehead. "My money's on him, too."

* * *

It was early, very early considering it was before even Germany's punctual wake up alarm. The sky had only barely begun to lighten, not even to the point of colors, just a dull lilac gray seeping over the eastern horizon.

Germany was slowly, gently shaken awake by a rhythmic pushing and a muffled whining. As his senses slowly filtered in through his sleep-gummed mind, he realized three things, each of which consecutively shifted him into a higher state of awareness. One: Italy had snuck into bed with him again, not that he hadn't expected it; two: the noises were coming from behind him; and three: the movement originated between his legs and was coupled with an unpleasant wetness ringed about his upper inner thighs.

Italy had wrapped his arms around Germany's waist and was panting desperately across his shoulder blades whilst his hips pistoned in and out between Germany's closed thighs. Indeed, as Germany looked down (completely, mortifyingly awake now), he could almost see the tip of Italy's erection play an obscene game of peek-a-boo with his balls, rubbing between the warm friction of his thighs. It didn't feel bad, even pleasant as the head rubbed against his perineum, and it was definitely better than being awoken by Italy putting his cock in _other _places it didn't belong, but it still unsettled Germany greatly and, after a few more seconds of humping, he decided that he'd had enough. Without letting Italy know he was indeed awake and not very happy about it, he let one hand trail down and gave a mean flick to the tip of Italy's cock just as it pressed though his thighs. It was apparently the wrong move because that single, painful tap was the only extra stimulus the little brunette needed. Italy's arms seized up around Germany's shoulders, holding him in a tight bear hug from behind, as his hips twitched and suddenly the offending finger was coated in a warm spurt of his release.

Italy panted happily, pulling out and flopping back in a dreamy daze. Germany was mortified, left with a sticky hand and no thoughts of spoiling yet another set of bed sheets by just wiping it off there.

"Hey, Germany." Italy spoke breathlessly, giddily, at his back. "You should lick it off. That's what a lover does."

"I'm not your lover!" Germany snapped, admittedly rather defensively, before rolling onto his back, his wet hand still hovering uncertainly in the air as if holding an invisible fruit.

But Italy just sighed happily, unaffected by the routine denial.

"As long as I get to sleep in Germany's bed, I don't care what you call us."

He snuggled closer before squirming on top of the larger country to straddle his hips. He took Germany's hand to his mouth and began to fastidiously lick it clean, which Germany thought was fair enough since it was his fault it got dirty in the first place. As he lay on his back, Italy's weight heavy but comfortable across his hips, watching him lathe his fingers with long languid licks in the warm darkness, Germany's eyes fell on the silver cross dangling across Italy's otherwise naked chest.

"Doesn't the Bible say somewhere that a man shouldn't treat another man like a woman?" he asked carefully, genuinely curious about how Italy reconciled his religion with his insatiable libido.

Italy laughed, the musical sound positively sparkling in the pre-dawn darkness.

"Of course it's impossible for me to make love to you as a woman – you don't have a vagina!" Italy giggled the words but still somehow managed to sound matter-of-fact. "Nor do I, of course!"

"I think you know what it means." Germany paused uncertainly.

Italy suddenly sat up properly, his spine straightening like a soldier's, and recited the Bible verse perfectly without a tremor or giggle in his voice.

"Leviticus 18:22. 'You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination.'" Italy paused thoughtfully. "However, the original Hebrew word actually translates to something like 'ritually unclean' rather than 'abomination'. It's not a sin; it's just not something you shouldn't do in ritually clean situations. But sex of any kind falls into that category too… So I guess as long as we clean each other after the act, 'cause it _is_ messy sometimes, it's okay."

As Italy said it, he brought Germany's hand to his mouth once again, sucking in a finger and holding it, rolling his tongue against it and applying pressure. He pulled back after a moment.

"Not to mention," he added genially, "there are lots of things in the Bible that we don't follow anymore. Blood sacrifices, slavery, pederasty, levirate marriage…" Italy counted them off on Germany's fingers as if it were his own hand.

"Levi-wha?" Germany stumbled with the new word. Despite how useless Italy was in most things, Germany was still occasionally humbled by his sophistication. As Rome's grandchild, his interests were extremely narrow but ran deep to make up for it.

"Oh, that's when you were required by law to marry your spouse's sibling if you were widowed," Italy explained easily.

Germany twitched at the thought of sweet Italy being replaced by surly, abusive Romano.

"Well, I'm glad we don't believe in _that _anymore." Germany sighed heavily.

"Yes. It's all about beliefs; how we feel. If this was truly sinful, I don't believe God would have put these feelings inside me. I can't help how I feel around you, Germany…" Italy murmured, bringing Germany's fingers in his mouth again, slowly kissing each tip and reverently taking two of them into his hot mouth for a long pull.

"Italy, my hand is clean now so you can stop being so lewd," Germany coughed out, glad the darkness hid the blush he felt prickling across his cheeks.

"But you want it, don't you?" Italy asked, free hand easily reaching behind him to palm Germany's cock, which was more awake than the rest of him.

Germany jerked and let out a shaky breath at the fleeting touch. It was almost embarrassing how much it affected him but Italy never spoke a word about it, only smiled to himself and worked harder to draw Germany out of his repressed shell.

Only here was Italy a master and he a novice. Only here could he let his guard down and let Italy lead. It felt nice to surrender the control after barking orders and holding up responsibilities all day. Only here in the membrane before dawn, before the day was real, could he let himself show weakness.

Italy was headstrong when he really wanted something, Germany sometimes had a hard time controlling him and had to resort to the chains of strict routine and admonishment in order to hold him back from his naturally wandering instincts. He had been with Italy from the beginning, often going through the same conflicts with him, yet despite their similar experiences they reacted in strikingly different ways. Italy had somehow emerged purer for it, refined through the fires of oppression, whereas Germany had just become sharper, stronger, bitterer.

It became remarkably apparent when they made love. Whereas Italy was strong and stubborn in his approach (rarely could Germany get away with making up an excuse), he still took the pleasure of the act as its own delicate art form to be perfected and enhanced with each advance. Germany, on the other hand would, never have even thought of it, let alone attempted to make a move, but once he was baited into it, he became crude, aggressive, taking what he needed with a fierceness that he only let out because he knew that Italy was strong enough to endure it. Indeed, it was Italy who had to be chained back; he was the only one who was capable of turning Germany feral.

"It's fine, you know – do you want to?" Italy asked gently. "I don't mind since I already came."

"Yes, you did – right between my legs, I noticed."

"Ah? But Germany, you were so mad _last_ time, I thought this was better. You didn't even wake up till the end."

"Well, of course I was mad about last time, waking up with your fingers in—in _there_ and… and y-your _penis _almost about to…" Germany stopped himself, knowing his face was already hot enough to light a match. He could barely force himself to say the word for the body part so there was no way he was going to try and stammer a recounting of what had happened after that.

He sighed heavily, bringing his free hand to cover his eyes.

"Just cause I didn't wake up this time doesn't mean I will appreciate it," he finished in as hard a voice as he could manage.

"Well, I'm sure I can find something _else _you'll appreciate," Italy murmured, a playfully husky note in his accented German as he wiggled his hips suggestively. The boxer shorts did nothing to hide Germany's arousal, which proved, despite any argument Germany could conjure (and he _had _conjured, myriads of useless denials, in the trenches, in the tents, in every single bed he had gone into alone and woken up accompanied, he had argued against it) that truthfully he wanted it.

He _wanted_. And there was no getting around that plain fact.

Italy made quick work of it, pushing away Germany's boxers and splashing a palmful of oil between them. He lowered himself back down over Germany's hips again, trapping Germany's arousal between them. Bracing himself on Germany's shoulders, Italy began to rock rhythmically, hip flexors straining and sliding across the slick heated surface, letting his thighs be used as he had already used Germany's. The blonde gasped, grabbing handfuls of the sheets as Italy's adeptness drove him to his limits; he knew exactly how much weight to let settle down, exactly how fast to swivel his hips, and the combined pressure and rhythm took his breath away. He could already feel his control slipping, felt a roar building up inside him, and when he cracked his eyes open to chance a look and saw that Italy had grown hard again, he attacked.

Surging up, he caught Italy and threw him down on the bed, grabbing up his legs and bearing down between them so that their dicks were aligned. Italy wasn't phased by it and didn't waste a second, even going so far as to grab them both in his hands and rub them together.

"Go on, Germany, do it…" Italy squirmed receptively, smearing his thumb across their wet heads so their passion was mixed. Germany shuddered and didn't need any more encouragement. He leaned back and Italy guided him, tightening his legs around Germany's hips. He took that as the needed signal and simultaneously pushed forward and bent down. Italy contorted easily with the powerful motion, nearly bending in half and crying out as Germany entered him like that. The noise made Germany pause, suddenly fearful that he had hurt Italy, he wasn't prepared enough, there wasn't enough lubrication, he had gone too fast, but Germany quickly recovered when he saw that Italy's mouth was hung open in awed pleasure, eyes glazed and glittering from the high of that first penetration. His hands had already snaked down to jerk himself off. The sight made the beast rise up in Germany and he pulled back only a few inches before burying himself into the heat again, quickly picking up a rhythm to match Italy's frenzied jerks.

There was a desperate sense of urgency to it, as with most of their dalliances, since the horizon was already beginning to blush a soft peeled peach. The act couldn't cross over into Germany's rigidly structure day, he wouldn't allow _this _to interfere with their plans or even become validated within the sun's glow. Their shared heat only existed in the transition between sleep and reality.

As he felt Italy tighten and spasm through his second orgasm, practically devoid of any refractory period whatsoever, Germany couldn't help but follow him into the void. For a second he was free of thought, or ideology, guilt, anger, wiped pure and clean for the merest second. It was that second of blameless bliss that Italy always managed to grant him that allowed him to continue – as though Italy painted over the flaws of the world with his smile.

And his hands, of course. His beautiful artist's hands. Germany could feel them on his bare back, tracing over the pathways of his scars, as Italy clung to him in the hazy aftermath, pressing little kisses to his shoulder, collarbone, wherever he could reach.

Germany pushed upwards and Italy, not clinging hard enough, fell back to the bed with a musical laugh; pretty little sinner that he was, his stomach glistening with his own ejaculate. He closed his big amber eyes with a sigh and put one of his hands to his belly, trailing through the mess, drawing a few lazy swirling little patterns before lifting his fingertips to his mouth—

Germany caught his hand and pulled it towards himself, reaching too for Italy's other. They were small, delicate, not much good for holding a gun, really.

"Germany?" Italy almost sang his name, his tone lilting and curious.

"Japan wrote." Germany flicked out his tongue and licked Italy's fingers clean so that his hands were no longer sullied with sin – so that they would be pure and perfect for his needs. "He said good things about your designs."

Italy smiled softly.

"I am glad," he said. "I worked hard on them because you said they were important."

"They are. You did a good job, Italy." Germany kissed Italy's right hand – his forefinger had a tiny groove in it against which a pencil or a paintbrush often pressed. "Japan has already begun work on the machine."

"Japan is our friend now, right?"

Germany nodded.

"It would seem that way. We need him, at any rate. He may not be an industrial powerhouse like America but only his brilliance can breathe life into your designs."

"And _your_ idea," Italy finished. He sat up and kissed Germany on the cheek before scrambling off the bed in a tangle of naked limbs and going to the desk. "I did more sketches."

Germany pulled the blankets over his lap as he waited for Italy to come back with one of his many sketchbooks; Italy settled happily next to him and flipped open the leather-bound book to show off page upon page of rough pencil drawings of everything imaginable. Scenes through windows, pretty lampshades, cars, fruit, fancy chairs, Prussia, Russia, Romano, Spain, Germany himself—

"Here." Italy eagerly pressed the book into Germany's hands. "I thought, you know, aesthetically—"

"Aesthetics hardly factor into this, Italy."

"Yes, but you want to cleanse the world with this creation," Italy argued. "There is no reason for it to be ugly. I'm sure Japan would agree!"

"Hmm." Germany looked down at the drawings, all labeled in neat Italian.

It was fascinating, really. Italy was completely and utterly hopeless in a combat situation, going to pieces, not even knowing how to hold a firearm correctly, but with a piece of paper in one hand and pencil in the other and suddenly, as in the bedroom, he was a master. Germany honestly felt an odd sort of… _pride_ in Italy when he looked at these beautiful drawings.

His idea. Italy's design. Japan's craftsmanship.

Their new Axis on which to hinge the world.

"Well, perhaps we can show these to Japan, too," Germany said.

Italy beamed.

"I'm glad," he said, reaching to take the sketchbook back.

As he did so, a single loose leaf fluttered out from between two of the pages and drifted to the floor. Germany reached to pick it up and was stunned when Italy practically leapt off the bed to beat him to it, snatching it from the carpet.

Germany hadn't really had time to look at it before Italy was stuffing it back into the sketchbook but he'd seen that it was a sketch of a small figure, perhaps a child, with flowing clothes that were heavily shaded as though they were black.

"Italy—" he began.

"It's a bad drawing," Italy cut in hurriedly, clutching the sketchbook to his chest as though afraid Germany might try to take it from him. "I'm embarrassed."

"None of your drawings are bad, Italy," Germany said.

Italy – hotheaded, willful Italy – wasn't to be persuaded.

"This one is," he said. "I broke the rules."

Germany was perplexed.

"What… what rules?" he asked, thinking that Italy was acting very oddly.

Italy gave a sigh and flopped back across the bed – still naked, still dirty, his cross glinting at his throat. His fiery hair glowed in the rising dawn.

"The rules my grandfather told me," he said absently, tucking his sketchbook behind his head. "Draw whatever you desire – but don't draw anything that you cannot have."

* * *

Too hot. It was much, much too hot. Both jackets off and slung on the empty kitchen chair next to him, America loosened the knot of his tie, plucked at the very top button of his collar, tried not to slump too much in his seat as he fanned himself with his newly-written Declaration of War.

Nobody else seemed to be this uncomfortable with the room's temperature. His own declaration in hand, France was talking, all decked out in that showy blue uniform of his – it had a _cape_, for God's sake – and England, one foot resting on his other knee, was listening but not looking at the Frenchman, immersed in carefully examining each individual bullet before letting it clatter to the bottom of the magazine. Once filled, he deftly slid the entire round into his new Browning Hi-Power pistol with a satisfying click and smiled at the sound. Canada, sitting quietly in his usual unobtrusive way, was torn between giving France his full attention and glancing bemusedly at America now and then.

It shouldn't be this warm. America blew upwards, cooling his forehead briefly before it began to burn again, and glanced at England. He was a few feet away; America dug one heel into France's floor and slid his chair closer to England's. At this point he was ready to sit on England's _lap_ if it made the heat in his body settle—

Because he blamed his "sickness". It was a feverish heat, one that prickled across the back of his brain whenever he closed his eyes, one that made his breath congeal in his lungs so that whatever air he took in wasn't enough. It made his head pound and the sweat bead on his brow and he could almost hear a faint sizzling sound—

"Canada, get your brother some water before he passes out on my floor," France said dismissively. "And Angleterre, stop so deliberately ignoring Amérique when he is almost on top of you. You are always so adamant about your "personal space" that it rouses my suspicion."

Canada got up and went to the sink, casting another worried glance at his twin as he rose; England finally looked up at France, his green eyes narrowed.

"Everything rouses _something_ in you, France," he replied curtly; he shrugged irritably as America rested his chin on his shoulder. "America, don't be a nuisance."

"I'm too hot," America complained in a low voice. "Hold my hand or something."

"Fine." England put his Browning down on the table with rather too much force and caught irritably at America's hand, squeezing it; he toyed absently with the few bullets remaining in his other palm as he turned his attention back to France with exaggerated interest.

France still looked rather doubtful, eyeing their clasped hands, but he let it drop, picking up his Declaration of War and beginning again. Canada came back to the table with the water and handed it to America.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly, sinking onto the edge of the chair next to America, avoiding sitting on his jackets.

"Yeah, I'm fine," America muttered, pressing the glass to his forehead and finally putting down his makeshift fan. "Thanks."

Canada didn't appear entirely convinced but clearly wasn't sure how to breach the whole "I-know-you're-lying" topic and just nodded uneasily. America downed the water greedily and tilted the glass upside down to get the last few drops; England was so blatantly ignoring him that he didn't even chide him for his bad table manners and let him get on with it.

America thought he was being mean; he had sprung to his side if he so much as coughed all day but, the moment they had gotten to France's, England had stopped pandering to him entirely, refusing to acknowledge that he was unwell. Or acknowledge him at all, for that matter; it was a common pattern whenever France was involved. America wasn't quite sure if it was because England didn't want to act affectionate towards him in front of France, who would probably tease him for it, or if it was because England was trying to hide the fact that America was sick in the first place.

Well, he was doing a grand job of the first option and a lousy job of the second one. Even with physical contact from England, America still felt awful. His arm was beginning to ache, the pain resonating from the connection of their hands and slithering up his forearm to form a blazingly-hot core at the entry point of the needle almost twenty-four hours ago. He grunted in pain and twisted a bit, clutching tighter at England's hand to try and squeeze off some of the pain.

He realized that he had absolutely _no_ idea what France was saying. He was pretty sure that France was speaking English but the buzzing in his skull made it difficult to understand his thick accent; that, and his vision had started to waver like he was punch drunk so that he couldn't even _see_ France all that clearly anymore, even when he adjusted his glasses and squinted. Everything just refused to be _still_; his own erratic thoughts, England's domineering memories, France's discombobulated voice, everything turning syrupy when he focused on it.

He felt England's weight shift next to him and heard his voice close to his ear as the older man leaned in:

"With your body reacting like this, I wonder if it will be alright for me to come inside you."

"I don't care," America said vehemently, leaning in so that the lips brushed his ear. "Do it anyway. I want you to."

"…Pardon?"

France's voice. America looked up, startled. All three of them were looking at him very oddly, although England had a little bit of color to his face.

"I… I was talking to England," America stammered defensively, shrinking in his seat again. "H-he asked me—"

"I asked you if you were going to _faint_," England said incredulously, heading him off. "And you came back with… well, _that_."

America blinked at him, confusion making the nausea rise up and his filters come down.

"No, you didn't," he said uneasily. "You… you asked if it would be okay if you came inside my body."

France arched an eyebrow interestedly and England's face flushed completely scarlet.

"I asked you that… _earlier_!" he hissed angrily. "_Much_ earlier when we… well, it's not important but… For God's sake, pay attention!"

He scowled and promptly found himself a bit of wall to stare at; France coughed amusedly but refrained from saying anything. America huffed and glowered at the floor. Great, so now the fucking history-sharing thing was affecting his _brain_.

Or his hearing. Which was ironic.

The thing was, it actually both had and hadn't been alright for England to come inside him that afternoon. At the time it had felt wonderful, a sudden burst of understanding that washed through him and left him hurriedly making connections in his mind even as England sighed and shifted backwards; grasping at the new knowledge as it rushed by and leaving him panting with the exhilaration of enlightenment as the feeling subsided. He suddenly knew his way around London, for one thing, and could recall what rings Queen Elizabeth I wore on which fingers in court – knew which seat William Shakespeare had liked in his favorite pub, remembered biting his lip with laughter as he read of Jonathan Swift's latest scandalous exploits in the slanderous Whig newspapers. His parted legs had trembled with the excitement, the prospect, of setting foot on new lands with high open skies and wide endless plains – _his_ lands. For the first time he had _known_ England's love for him instead of merely believing in it.

—But it had congealed inside him. It was likely just his imagination, his oversensitivity to any contact from England at all, but he fancied that he could feel it within him, wet and sticky like some awful spider's web slung about his innards; and that, if he dared to put his hand anywhere near down there to try and clean it, it would stick to him there too, drench his palm in spent dead ejaculate that had taken up residence in him as though it had impregnated him—

Wait. He slid his palm against England's. His hand _was_ wet. So was his arm, his shirt sleeve sticking to his skin.

He and England looked down at their interlocked hands at the same time. There was a slow but steady stream of blood dripping from their union, running down America's arm and over his wrist into the small pool of their clasped palms.

England snatched his hand back and got up, almost knocking over his chair as he seized America under his arms.

"Get up," he ordered, hauling at him. "Get _up_, boy!"

America barely had the strength to stand but yielded to England dragging at him, rising shakily; he swayed as he straightened and grabbed at the table, leaving a smear of blood on it.

"America!" Canada stood too, white in the face, and helped steady him. "What's the matter with you?"

"He's alright, he just cut himself earlier," England lied easily, pulling America away. "Come along, lad, let's get you cleaned up."

America could only nod faintly, pressing a hand to his burning forehead as England heaved him towards the kitchen door.

"You know where the bathroom is," France drawled, flopping heavily into one of his own chairs and tossing his Declaration of War onto the table in front of him. "Mon dieu, never have I known so many interruptions during a war declaration party…"

"I'm sorry," America mumbled; he glanced apologetically at France and was somewhat alarmed, even though the haze of pain and shock, to see France glaring suspiciously at England.

England saw it and flipped France off. France didn't react except to take out a packet of cigarettes and light one up, speaking to a concerned, hovering Canada in low French. Canada exhaled and sat down again just as England pulled America out of the kitchen.

"He knows," America said, sitting on the edge of the bath with his hand pressed over the needle-mark. "He keeps giving you the Evil Eye."

"He doesn't know," England replied dismissively. "He's an idiot." He dug around and found a cloth in one of France's cupboards. "Take off your shirt and tie, won't you?"

America pulled his tie loose and tossed it onto the bathroom floor before undoing his shirt, smearing the buttons with blood as his fingers fumbled with them; he shrugged the shirt off and gingerly peeled his damp bloody sleeve away from his right arm.

The bleeding appeared to have stopped; America twisted his arm this way and that but nothing more than a tiny bead swelled at the mark, though the puncture wound itself looked strangely swollen and red, as though inflamed with an allergic reaction.

"It's stopped," he reported lamely, blinking at it. "I got no idea why it was bleeding so copiously like that…"

"Isn't it obvious?" England asked lightly, coming to his side with the warm wet cloth. "Your body was rejecting my blood."

America blinked as England took his wrist.

"Rejecting it?" he repeated. "Wh-why would it—why would _I_ do that…? And, I mean, why now after all this time…?"

"I don't know what took it so long." England pressed the cloth to the prick-mark, gently wiping away the blood, and then paused to touch his fingertip to it to disturb it and see if it bled again—

It _reacted_ to his touch, the vein visibly throbbed and a shock of blood – no doubt his own – flared from the needle-mark spurting right at him; America snatched his arm back and stared at England, stunned. The blood had splattered clean across his throat like a liquid choker of red jewels – a bloody line to mark the scar he didn't have from the memory he did.

"Your body is spitting my history back at me," England said blithely, tossing the stained cloth at America. "You'll have to do it yourself, I'm afraid." He sighed and went back to France's open, raided cupboards. "I'll fetch you a bandage."

America watched him guardedly as he wiped his arm down, his vein still tingling.

"You don't know why it took _so long_?" he reiterated coolly. "You mean you _knew_ this would happen?"

England shrugged and didn't look at him.

"It's only natural that your, ah, mechanism would sort through all of your newly-acquired history and decide on certain things that it doesn't want," he said. "It doesn't mean you're going to lose everything I gave you – it just means your body is acquainting itself with it all and making a few decisions. Rather like spring cleaning, I suppose."

"You can't be so choosy when it comes to history!" America replied, working the cloth down between the webbing of his fingers to get at the congealing blood. "I don't want lose anything you gave me!"

(He'd learned that the hard way because, again, he really never _had_ gotten around to clearing out that damned storage room…)

England glanced at him very briefly.

"You made that bed a long time ago, I'm afraid," he said. "1776 strikes again; your system is doing this now because it's ingrained into you to cast me off when I bear down upon you too heavily." England grinned and pointed to his "choker". "Ironically, _this_ is the mark of Revolution."

"So, what, I can't touch you ever again or I'll start gushing like Niagara Falls?" America snapped, throwing the cloth into the sink angrily. "Well, _that's_ damned inconvenient given that touching you is _also_ the only thing that makes me not feel like George Washington went cherry-tree on my skull."

"America, even _I_ know that cherry tree thing is a lie that has imbedded itself into your history."

"The comparison still stands," America said grouchily. "God, I haven't felt this sick since Wall Street crashed and now you're telling me my body is vomiting your blood out again so it's all gonna be for nothing?"

"I said nothing of the sort," England said impatiently. "Will you please _listen_? Now that your system has gotten used to my history being in your body enough that it can decide what it doesn't want to keep, _none_ of this should last much longer. I expect you'll be feeling yourself again by morning."

"And I can touch you and not bleed all over France's kitchen? And _not_ touch you because I don't need to in order to think properly?"

"I should think so." England surfaced with a bandage and turned back to America. "Hold your arm out stiff – I can probably do this without touching you."

America obeyed; England pressed the middle of the bandage to the needle-mark and worked his way inwards, tying it neatly at the crook of America's elbow.

"That ought to do it," he said. "Hopefully that's the last we shall have to deal with it."

"Thanks," America said, bending his elbow to examine the bandage. "Admit it, England; you love playing nursemaid."

England sighed at him, turning to the sink once more.

"No I don't," he said, although his tone was a good deal less defensive and flustered than America had expected. "On the contrary, it is rather a shame that I am called upon so often to play the role – that is, _practice_ has made me adept, not pleasure."

"Lay off the wars, then."

"It's not as though I _started_ all of the wars I've been involved in," England said bitterly, rinsing the cloth out distractedly.

"I'm still gonna go with over half, though," America countered; he tapped his temple when England glared over his shoulder at him. "Hey, don't give me that look. These aren't exactly blind guesses – it's all up here now, remember?" He frowned. "You know, aside from the bits my artery spewed all over France's house. And you." He twitched his nose briefly to hitch up his sliding glasses. "_And_ let's not forget that the whole reason we're in France's house to begin with is because, at _your_ suggestion, we're all about to go postal on Germany and his wildly-roving Band of Merry Men—"

"Yes, yes, alright," England interrupted. "You've made your point. I'm a trouble-maker. Let's just leave any references to Robin Hood out of it, hmm?"

America grinned; he now knew perfectly well why Robin Hood might be a touchy subject with England.

"A lie that has imbedded itself into your history," he sighed, looking up at the plain but pretty ceiling of France's bathroom.

England nodded approvingly, finally turning to face America properly, wringing out the cloth as he did so.

"Well, I'm glad you're finally beginning to get the hang of _that_ concept, at least," he said. "You argued with me point-blank about it earlier this afternoon."

America gave an awkward shrug, deflecting England's wry smirk.

"I'd have understood better if you'd mentioned the George-Washington-and-the-cherry-tree thing straight off," he grumbled. "It illustrates the point more clearly than your fancy-pants cryptic wordplay, England."

"I apologize. Sometimes I drink too deeply of Bard's blood."

And he was at it again. America didn't even pursue the meaning of what England had said, instead letting his gaze settle insistently at England's throat.

"And _that_?" he asked, motioning to his own neck, drawing a line clean across it.

"I don't know," England replied airily, wiping at his throat on his jacket cuff; a faint copper smear was left behind on his pale skin but the studded line across it was gone when he lifted his arm away.

"I think you do," America countered coolly.

"You have my memories," England pointed out. "If I know then you, too, now know."

"But I don't."

"Then there's your answer."

"But…!" America trailed off in frustration. He was not going to back down about this, not when he'd so vividly seen and felt the memory himself, when England's own blood had been thrown back at him, rejected by America's body, in so bold and blatant and _guilty_ a pattern upon him. "…Okay. Fine. You say you don't know. But maybe _I_ don't believe you."

England looked pointedly at him.

"Using that logic so cleverly now," he said, "only proves to me that, as I suspected, you were simply being deliberately stupid this afternoon." He shook his head. "It's often the case. I admit I don't know why you do it. You are nowhere near as idiotic as you like to act." He paused thoughtfully. "Still, they _do_ say that it takes a wise man to act a fool."

"Oh, I don't know about that," America sighed, shivering a bit and looking forlornly at his bloody shirt; the burning in his body was finally beginning to subside a little and, topless, he couldn't help but start quivering as the sweat turned cold. "Half the time I really genuinely do have pretty much no idea what you're talking about, England."

"That's because you don't _listen_."

"Nuh-_uh_. It's because you're a drunkard. And you're mad."

"And because _you_ butchered my language and thus can't understand Basic English."

"There you are! _Thus_! Who says _thus_, England?"

There was a timid knock at the ajar door just as England opened his mouth; America hooked it open with his heel rather roughly, which Canada, standing on the other side of it, flinched at.

"France said you'd need a shirt," Canada said quickly, holding out the plain white shirt folded neatly in his arms as though to explain himself physically as well as verbally; the way he glanced nervously between them both was evidence enough that he'd heard them arguing.

"Yes, put that on and come back downstairs," England said dismissively, stepping past them both and out of the bathroom. "Kindly recall that we're here for a reason, after all."

America pulled a face at him as he left. Oh, England didn't see him do it but he knew he had; he ignored it and pulled at the bathroom door behind him, leaving Canada at America's mercy instead.

France was waiting for him in the hall.

"Angleterre," he purred dangerously, "I desire a word – no, two, three words – with you."

"Too bad," England replied coldly. "I have no desire to have any number of words with _you_."

France pulled England's own loaded Browning Hi-Power out from where it had presumably been tucked into the back of his belt, aiming it rather calmly at his forehead.

"It was not a request, mon ami," he said pleasantly; he motioned towards his open study door at the other end of the hall. "Shall we?"

England snorted at him, shifting his weight onto one leg.

"I doubt you're going to blow my brains out in the middle of your pretty little Parisian house, France," he said. "Think of the damage to the wallpaper."

France grinned at him.

"I might," he countered in a low voice, "if only for the irony of shooting you with a gun that you loaded yourself."

Huh. England narrowed his eyes. He wasn't exactly France's biggest fan but he was always (grudgingly) willing to give him credit where credit was due; France had been powerful in his time and, conversely, hadn't always been the most reasonable of nations. After all, there _was_ only one reason he didn't have a monarchy anymore…

France shut the study door behind them, turning to England once they were inside, still keeping a very firm hold on the Browning even though he had lowered it a little.

"Angleterre," he sighed, "you insult me. Did you truly think you could hide this from me?"

"I wouldn't have brought him if not for the rather pressing matter of writing our Declarations of War," England replied coolly, folding his arms. "I'd rather not have taken him from his sickbed."

"He does seem rather unwell," France agreed, his blue eyes gleaming. "I wonder what the cause might be." He said it without a single hint of wonder in his voice.

"A good question, isn't it?" England returned, not playing into the accusatory sarcasm and drifted over to France's desk instead, attracted by the map sprawled out across it in a similar fashion to his own in the drawing room; the names on the map were in French, of course, but France had clearly been plotting out his allies and enemies in an identical way, color-coding them as England himself had. "He has always baffled me, that boy," he added, tracing his fingers along the eastern edge of the blue-shaded Estats-Unis.

France, who had followed him, lost his temper and grabbed England's wrist, wrenching it away from the map and forcibly turning him to face him.

"Do not _insult_ me!" France spat again as England blinked at him in shock. "You selfish, idiotic bastard, do you truly think that I am so stupid? You have put your dirty blood inside his body, you have forced your history onto him – you have committed Pangaea and do not think for even one moment that I am ignorant of it!"

England snatched his wrist back.

"Mind your own business," he bit out, looking away.

"Sacre _bleu_, it is very much my business!" France cried. "He is not your possession to do with as you please—"

"He is more mine than anyone else's!" England argued hotly. "He speaks my language, he chose me to guard him all those years ago over anyone else, over you, over Spain—why will you endeavor take him from me when you have, and have always had, Canada?"

"I do not speak of possession," France snapped, "because he is not yours and Canada is not mine – not wholly, not entirely. There is as much of me in Amérique as there is of you in Canada, and there is Spanish and Dutch in Amérique also, there is—"

"And yet he cast it all off and therein only British North America remained," England cut in triumphantly.

"And then he cast _you_ off, too," France countered.

"Because _you_ put that sickness in him!" England hissed, leaning in to France savagely. "Revolution – your virus, your _disease_. Don't talk to me about the ills of me pouring myself into him when you have done much the same thing—"

"Revolution is one single idea, one single action. That is entirely different to _you_ putting your _whole history_ into him." France looked like he was on the verge of slapping England in the face. "All our hard work to create him and then _you_ do this unspeakable damage to him – and just when we had let our guard down, too, you little snake. You cared for him well enough when he was a child and I assumed it was safe enough to let him grow close to you now if that was what he wanted; advantageous, even, if it meant that you would be become inseparable military allies. Never did I expect that now, hundreds of years later, you would do the forbidden – that you would taint him with your filth."

"You don't understand," England said icily. "Nor _would_ you if I explained it to you." He pushed himself away from the desk, elbowing France out of his way, and started towards the door.

"But I might have my suspicions," France replied, making England pause. "Do not forget that _I_ was a part of the Poppy Pact as well."

"Russia has broken his promise by allying himself with Germany," England snapped.

"And yet you act now upon his words?"

"He wasn't lying. I may hate him but I believe him. He committed Pangaea with Prussia and it made things… different."

"But what if he _was_ lying, Angleterre?" France pressed, beginning to sound desperate. "How could you act on a madman's words when you have never trusted him?"

"But he wasn't." England finally turned back to France, suddenly feeling exhausted. "When he came back, he knew things – he'd seen things. He said there would be another war and here we are, standing at the very brink of it. I've thought about this for years, France – about what Russia said when we pulled him out. The things he said about America. America chose me to guard him, to love him, and I won't let him become what this war intends to turn him into if I can help it, even if it means changing history. Pangaea is just a means to an end."

"A dangerous one!" France burst out incredulously. "Who knows how long it will be until history comes for you? Did you not consider how ill-timed this was, just as we declare war?"

"I cannot wait and give Japan time to join the Axis Powers. That is where it begins."

"And what about me?" France asked frostily. "What about Europe? If Russia is to be believed, at some point in this war, you are to be the only one left standing before the Axis Powers – the one immovable wall between them and their goal of conquering Europe. If you do _anything_ to alter that, changing the stakes so early in the game, the Axis might win the war, Angleterre!"

"Well, _you_ could start by not surrendering," England bit out. "And you'll have America from the start this time – and Canada. Besides, it might be months, maybe even years, before history punishes me for what I've done. There's a chance we can have the war won by then."

France shook his head.

"Russia wasn't supposed to come back," he said quietly. "You know that, do you not?"

"He was lucky," England agreed.

"You might not be so fortunate."

"I am aware of that." England shook his head. "I don't care. It doesn't matter. We both know what would happen to me at the end of the war if I hadn't done this – I'd be a bankrupt, battle-scarred shell anyway."

"So you will disappear and Amérique will hold your history within him – you have imprinted yourself upon him with how you raised him and filled his veins with your blood as a parting token. He will wear your mantle when you are gone, a mixed-blood hybrid of you both."

"His blood was mixed already," England said with a smirk. "You have pointed that out yourself."

"Because he is _ours_. All of ours. Our wishes, our dreams, our ideas – he embodies them, as does Canada."

"The New World." England nodded. "So I will give him a new world in return. History has marked him cruelly as a monster but he is not history's – he is ours. Or, rather, now that I have given away my own history to him, he is wholly mine, and so I will take responsibility for him. It isn't fair that he should suffer because of our war – and it was, after all, we who created him to begin with. For all the desired endless capacity we wished upon him, I for one never intended for him to become the most powerful weapon ever dreamed of. America is, first and foremost, an idea – and not one of war or of power."

"I did not know that you were so devoted to him," France said, although there was a bit of a sneer in his voice. "To give yourself as a sacrifice to save him from what he will become is so undeniably selfless that it surprises me, coming from you."

England grinned at him.

"Oh, it's not entirely selfless," he said. "Preserving my history inside him via Pangaea and letting it course in his veins, letting it become part of him so that he learns from it and lives by it, is a good deal more glorious than for me to rot and resent in the 1950s, don't you think? In this way I am putting my crown upon his brow myself instead of him prying it from my cold dead fingers when it's battered from the Blitz and dented from D-Day." His expression sobered. "Besides, ideas breed other ideas. It would be better if those weapons were never born of him and then no-one ever mimicked them."

"So you are saving the world?" France mocked.

England shook his head.

"No," he replied. "I am saving America. It is only that he will _become_ the world after this war."

France looked exasperated.

"Why is it _I_ who is mocked so mercilessly for entertaining romantic notions?" he asked coldly. "I knew you had a head filled with your Shakespeare and Austen but never did I imagine that you would apply those pages to a _war_. You cannot be so selfish as to dedicate yourself only to the one you love at a time such as this!" His expression darkened. "Where has my monster of a British Empire gone? Even during the Great War, you devoured all who stood in your path."

"I am terrified that I might have already given that aspect of myself away to America," England said. "That is, after all, the path history has begun to blaze before him. In that respect, this has little to do with romance. America and Canada were not designed to be like us. You and I and Spain and Portugal, all us old Empires, we were created to be military machines, to fight and destroy and conquer on behalf of our peoples, our kings and queens and leaders – but there was gentleness enough in us that we could perceive what peace was, even if it was never to be ours. America and Canada are our own designs, our manufactured shells for those ideals, ones of peace and equality and dreams. Nations created by other nations – an experiment." England clenched his fists. "This isn't about love, France. I love him even if I shouldn't because I helped to make him, because he isn't like us, but I'm not doing this simply _because_ I love him. History wants to make him like us – _worse_ than us – and I won't let that happen. I won't have our experiment ruined when he was on the very brink of perfection."

"You think him perfect when he tore himself in two in the 1860s and divided his values – _our_ values – between opposing versions of himself?"

"How can _I_ for one judge him for that?" England asked haughtily. "I too have had a Civil War—"

"But we took care to ensure that he would not _remember_ that he split in half!" France said frustratedly. "Knowing that pain, it was _your_ decision that we… reprogram him, if you will, so that he would recall only the war itself."

"To protect him! You saw what that war did to him – no nation is ever meant to break apart like that and when it was all over nothing but ideology to begin with… He wouldn't have recovered if we hadn't hidden that truth from him!"

"And yet now you may have done him even worse damage," France said idly. "You are still the largest empire in existence and we all know how you got to be so. Heads will roll, as they say, non? And now you have put all of that into him. If anything, I expect that he will _worsen_ now. You may be a romantic, Angleterre, but you are also insatiably greedy and appallingly brutal."

"That is how I was designed. Eat or be eaten, as they say, no?"

"That is an excuse?"

"No. Simply the truth. Besides, you're preaching to the choir, France. How very fine it is for _you_ to say "heads will roll", hm?" England went to the study door at long last. "I take it we are done? You are no longer holding me at gunpoint, at least."

France glowered at him for a long moment before crossing the study and making a point of pressing the Browning back into England's hand.

"How different the world might have been," the Frenchman lamented, "if only I had killed you at Hastings instead of showing you mercy."

"Mm," England agreed, noting that the safety had been on the entire time as he slipped the pistol back into his belt. "History can be as kind as she is cruel."

* * *

"I didn't think West would have the nerve to treat me like an errand-boy," Prussia grumbled, pulling on his heavy military-issue overcoat. "I didn't sign up to do his dirty work for him."

"Oh, but it will be fun, da?" Russia asked pleasantly, waiting for him beside the door – already bundled up, as was his habit. "I am glad that he does not accompany us this evening. He is so very precise in his methods that he makes everything boring. It will be pleasant, just the two of us."

"I see you've learnt all there is to know about him already," Prussia said with a dry grin. "Or… well, I suppose you already knew." He buttoned his coat, checked his gun and went to join Russia. "How dull the world will be when he rules it."

Russia simply smiled. Prussia saw it and rolled his scarlet eyes.

"Jeez, save it for Denmark and Norway," he muttered.

* * *

"Sing to me," America said.

His voice was quiet and high-pitched. England turned towards him, leaving his brandy and Declaration of War unattended on the dresser; he continued unknotting his tie as he looked at America curled up on the bed in just his plain grey boxer shorts, his skin alight with a sheen of sweat and his blue eyes glittering feverishly.

America had taken a turn for the worse during the second half of the "war declaration party", briefly passing out on the table, awakening with a start at England's touch and spending the rest of the meeting half-asleep on France's sofa with an ice-packed cloth pressed to his forehead. Canada, who noticed that England and France were not paying America much attention, sat by him worriedly and even shot England a rather sour, mistrustful look when he finally came through from the kitchen to fetch America and take him home.

Well, Canada always had been less oblivious than his twin, even when neither of them knew the complete truth.

"Sing to you, my love?" England asked by way of reply, sinking to his knees so that he was level with the bed and America's face; studying him, taking note of the high color in his cheeks, how it drowned out the tiny spatters of pale freckles that arched across the bridge of his nose when the sun shone.

"Mm." America nodded and smiled prettily at him. He was almost delirious. He shifted his legs, curling them up against his chest briefly. "Anything. Sing me to sleep."

"You need to get into bed first," England said.

"Nnn." America rolled over, leaving England looking at his back and the way the curve of his spine pressed against his damp skin. "Too hot."

"I know you are," England sighed. "It cannot be helped. It's almost over."

"Sing to me," America insisted, ignoring him. "An old song. Something I know."

"Oh, very well."

England didn't see a way around it – America was awkward at the best of times. He stood up and then sat on the bed, feeling America turn over again and curl around his back. He reached down and tugged his Browning out of his belt; it had been pressed too close for his liking to America's shoulder.

He sang _Orange and Lemons_ for him, another old nursery-rhyme song, this one about the words of London's church bells as they chimed conversationally to one another on a Sunday morning; he thought that perhaps America was asleep already since he didn't react at all to the song except for when England came to the very last line:

"Here comes the chopper—"

"Not that line," America mumbled, pushing at England. "I never liked that line."

"You asked me to sing for you," England groused. "You should have said something before if you didn't want me to sing that one."

America shrugged sleepily, not opening his eyes.

"It isn't that," he muttered. "I like anything you sing. I like listening to you. The way your voice is all gentle and sweet… it reminds me that you have more than just one tone of voice. You know, the angry one." He frowned, his sticky forehead furrowing. "But I just never liked that line, even when I was small."

"Right." England rubbed at his neck and got up, prying himself away from America, who clung a little bit before weakly letting go. "Get yourself into bed, then, my boy."

"Mm." America didn't move, practically asleep.

England sighed, knowing he wouldn't be able to budge him, and fetched a blanket instead, draping it over America and making him stir again.

"Are you coming to bed?" America asked groggily.

"Soon," England promised. "I have to make a telephone call first."

He straightened and began to walk away; America reached out from beneath the blanket and caught his hand.

"Make it quick, doll," he teased drowsily, one eye cracking open just enough to gleam at England. "The night is still young."

"Oh, I will," England replied blandly, looking down at America's arm.

The blood was blossoming against the bandage again. Smiling, sleepy, America hadn't even noticed that his body was casting out England's history once more – rejecting his protection. England snatched his hand back and the bleeding stopped but the damage was done, macabre and messy on the plain blanket.

He stumbled out of the room with his brandy and his gun.

_Here comes the chopper to chop off your head._

_

* * *

_

Whoa! Pangaea is a verb now! WHAT DOES IT MEAN! Hopefully we will find out soon. XP

In closing there are just a few things to mention about this chapter:

**One:** The unicorn appearing chained on Great Britain's coat of arms is historically significant because a free unicorn was considered to be a very dangerous animal. (Anyone seen _The Last Unicorn_? EVERYONE wanted to chain her up!)

**Two:** There was an FFNet-enforced typo that appeared in chapter 2 when it was posted that RR fixed as soon as she saw it but the first wave of readers may have been burdened with it. It was one of the most important lines of the chapter, as well. England saying "Bloody bloody history. That's the trouble. It's _all _lies – even the truth." It is, as I said, now fixed, but some people will have missed reading it.

**Three:** I know RR said the last chapter was going to be the most religion-focused one for a while and then I went and quoted the Bible directly in this chapter. *facepalm* Wasn't originally in the plan to have that conversation here but it fit so we just went with it. (I have conversations like this all the time as part of my day job. You do actually have to explain it like that for some people to get it. Guh…)

And that's it for now! We will update again sometime in December. Thanks for reading! For those of you in the States, Happy Thanksgiving!

Narroch and RobinRocks

xXx

P.S. So… Who went to YaoiCon!


	4. England Expects

So, to be honest, it took us a while longer to pull this chapter together than we were expecting simply because of... eh, that annoying distraction called Real Life and also just because this chapter is pretty ridiculously long. Our sincerest apologies in advance for the agony your eyes will be in when at long last you crawl over this chapter's finish line.

We won't keep you too long up here. Thanks to: **DesktopNeko, Grayrainbowninja39, SeungSeiRan, rae1112, TheWonderBunny, Nickel Xenon, Details, Divadcreator, DetectiveLinky, Genki-angel-chan, Cheese-kun, sacredpools, suzako, dryeyes, hoshiko2kokoro, Synonymous Brian, andthenshesaid, CigfrainSol, Chibiaries **and **jesusofsuburbia2o2o!**

Two other things:

**One: **The title of this chapter, _England Expects_, is a shortened version of the Royal Navy "slogan", 'England expects that every man will do his duty', which is a polite way of saying 'Don't jump ship, ye scurvy dogs'. It was notably in use under Admiral Nelson.

**Two:** OC ahoy! Except not really because Portugal _is_ a real freaking country and for some reason Himaruya totally ignored it even though it's like _right there_ next to Spain. o.O Our Portugal is as "canon" as we can make him, his description based as close as possible on a rough concept sketch Himaruya released of the character, although we had to be rather more inventive with his personality. His inclusion is important because Britain (well, the England-Wales bit) has the world's oldest military alliance with Portugal – the Anglo-Portuguese Alliance was first forged in 1373 and is still in effect today! We (the UK, I mean – not Narroch and I!) have never gone to war with Portugal; and Portugal allowed Britain to send battleships in and out of its ports during WWI and WWII even though it was neutral. Of course, nowadays the UK is too busy being military allies/bffs/uke with the USA to pay much attention to poor old Portugal but the alliance is still there! =)

Just be like the USA and UK and don't let Portugal's presence distract you too much from srs bzns. XD

Pangaea

England Expects

America exhaled deeply, the water sloshing at his collarbone as he shifted in the bathtub. It was warm and clean and refreshing, clearing his head as he tilted it back against the porcelain and looked at the ceiling of England's bathroom. As odd as it was, perhaps, to bathe so early in the day, he couldn't deny how much better he felt for it, having allowed England to entice him out of bed and lead him half-stumbling along the landing to where the bath had lay waiting for him, steamy and smelling of bath salts. Given that he'd spent the majority of the past thirty-six hours asleep and drenched in sweat with crudely-wiped smears of blood tracked up his arm, there was no welcomer relief than an antique griffin-legged tub full of hot water in which for him to rinse the last of the shockwave symptoms off his skin and out of his system.

He was hungry, he realized as he looked shortsightedly about the humid bathroom – so hungry, in fact, that he didn't care _how_ cremated England's breakfast offering was this morning. He felt his stomach would happily macerate even charcoal. Ah, and speaking of coal, he hadn't had a smoke in a few days. A cigarette would be nice. Maybe he could pilfer one from the wooden box on the dresser.

It was quiet. _Very_ quiet, in fact, considering that they were balancing precariously on the edge of war. He hadn't been anticipating any more gentle hazy mornings like this after signing the war declarations to make this entire mess official. He had half-expected gas clouds or shrapnel rain to follow them from France's house, to come home and find the trenches already neatly dug and ready to be cowered in. And, while he couldn't really remember exactly _how_ they had gotten home last night, he still thought the morning would reflect those differences. The milieu would be eerie and bullet-ridden, the bath would consist of cold swipes of a wet cloth and the food would be a dense tasteless ration block. But, even though they were now at war, it was just like any other morning, where he slept in late while England got up early just to make a pot of tea since he couldn't go without his finely crafted infusion for more than a few hours.

If he closed his eyes and listened as carefully as he could, he could hear England faintly singing in the kitchen – and he recalled, dazedly, asking England to sing for him last night, though he could not remember what he had requested, nor indeed even the words or the tune of what England had trilled. It didn't matter. America loved, and had always loved, hearing him sing; he was not exactly Judy Garland but the rough slurs and hard, short bites that littered his voice when he spoke all disappeared when he wrapped it instead around a tune, around lovely words that were not his own, and becoming strangely pretty particularly when there was a story in the song. He became sweetly immersed in whatever legend or rhyme or warble of wisdom he was trying to convey, focusing on the rise and fall of notes rather than on correcting America's slouching posture or complaining about France's latest perversion; even the near constant frown he entertained lifted as the melody flowed up over his brow.

But another shift in the bath, stretching out his long legs over the porcelain rim, and America couldn't hear him anymore. Perhaps he had stopped.

America looked at his arm for a long moment. He had peeled away the bloody gauze before stepping into the bath and rinsing away the copper crust in the water; now, again, there was only the tiniest of bruises to signify that a needle had gone into his vein at all. The bleeding seemed, at long last, to have finally stopped, even when England laid a hand upon his bare skin.

Even so, America recalled with a scowl, for all England's airy excuses and highbrow explanations, he had still received no satisfactory answer as to why England seemed to have a memory of being beheaded that insisted upon its new host with such utter violence and inclination that it struck back at England himself in the form of a ghost mark in his own blood, spattered suspiciously across his neck as though the memory itself refused to be denied.

Curiouser and curiouser, in Alice's words – or Lewis Carroll's, at least, yet another of America's new quiet prides.

Unable to stand the hunger pangs much longer, America grudgingly pulled up the chained plug to the drain and got out of the bath feeling much purer; he toweled himself off quickly, pulling on his camel-colored uniform trousers and a new sleeveless white military-issue under-vest, throwing his white shirt on over the top of it and leaving it unbuttoned. He roughly rubbed his hair dry on his way back to the bedroom to forage blindly for his glasses for five minutes because they were never where he left them because England kept _moving_ them to somewhere he couldn't see them—

He found them on top of the cigarette box, swiped two of England's cigarettes to get him back for what surely had to be Round 57 of the morning Hunt-for-the-Corrective-Lenses game by now and went down to breakfast barefoot.

England was in front of the stove top when America entered the kitchen, his back to the doorway and fully dressed but for his jacket and officer's belt, leaving his braces as two stark black lines crisscrossing down his narrow back, one of them slipping a little. He was prodding absently at something sizzling in a pan whilst his attention was quite clearly on one of the half a dozen or so maps spread out on the sideboard; then left off tending the food completely in order to pluck up a pen in his hand, trailing gently just-so along the curves of the River Inn on an battered map of Germany, Austria and Switzerland. His old trench knife-bayonet, scuffed but sharp and shining, was sitting perpendicular atop another faded diagram of Italy.

America took a step towards him, his bare feet barely making a muffled sound on the wooden floor, but England noticeably tensed nonetheless; his hand froze, hovering over the Rhineland, and then moved deliberately, openly, towards the bayonet.

"It's just me," America said quickly, setting him at ease again. "Jeez, what are you all jittery for?"

"I wonder," England replied smoothly, coolly, not turning to address him. "Besides, this is merely war-time caution against a slit throat – not jitteriness, necessarily."

America shook some of his wet hair out of his eyes.

"Remind me not to sneak up on you from here on out," he muttered.

"If you like your innards being firmly within you, that would probably be for the best," England agreed mildly. He brought his pen up for a moment, poised over Germany, and then made a decisive mark on the map.

"Is this why you burn everything?" America asked languidly, sticking his hands in his pockets and approaching him from behind to ascertain what he was attempting to char. "Because you're too busy being your little strategic genius self to notice the smoke when you cook?"

"Mm." England barely answered him, still distracted by his map even though—

"England, that wasn't rhetorical; your pan is smoking right now." America reached around him and turned down the gas. "You have to pay attention to these things." He left off the dial and let his arm settle around England's middle instead, squeezing him warmly. "Oh, and look at that. I snuck up on you."

"Then I shall have to take the corresponding action," England said, dropping his pen and closing his hand instead around the hilt of his battered, beloved bayonet.

"And have my guts for garters, right?" America hummed, putting his chin on one of England's shoulders and reaching up towards the other to slip his forefinger beneath the skewed brace and pull it up, letting it snap back into its proper place.

"Something like that." England shifted in his grasp. "I say, could we _not_ do this before a spitting pan?"

"Oh, you've had worse injuries." America took hold of England's wrist and lifted his arm, making it bend up towards him; his shirt cuff slipped back a little, revealing a few tiny nicks and scars on England's forearm, the raised marks on his skin reflected the light differently, made the scar tissue stand out – rather like the ones on the dull steel bayonet clutched tightly in England's hand as though it was a mere extension of his limb, so well did it blend into his battle-scarred extremities. "I can feel them all prickle on _my_ skin when I breathe you in."

He pressed a kiss flush to the underside of England's wrist, to the dip in the base of his palm where the skin was translucent and defenseless, right next to the hilt of his bayonet that was solid and guarded. The thin blue pulse jumped under America's lips but England didn't say anything, barely even reacted, though America could still sense him contemplating the barrier of his arms, he could almost _feel_ the simmering heat of his blood, his hunger to destroy—

Hungry. Yeah. America's own stomach growled and he winced. He'd almost forgotten.

"I expect you're starving," England said dismissively, taking the opportunity to untwine himself from America's arms and go back to his now thoroughly-blackened pan; he gave a flick of his wrist and did some very decorative and impressive twirling with his bayonet as he slid it easily back in his belt without even looking at the holster as he did it. "You only had that bowl of broth yesterday. Go and sit down. Breakfast is almost ready."

"Fine, fine." America sidled away to the kitchen table and sank heavily into one of the chairs. _His_ chair; his favorite with the funny little groove in the left arm that he liked to run this thumb over distractedly while he was waiting to be served. "But hurry up or I'll be forced to take a bite of the damn table."

"As impatient as always." England came to the table in question a moment later with a plate of customarily-charred toast. "Here, you may begin."

"Gee, thanks," America drawled, grabbing four slices and arranging them strategically on his own plate so that he could spread jam on all of them at the same time to at least create a barrier of sweetness between the sooty toast and his tongue. He piled them up in a four-layer stack and took a massive bite out of one of the corners, making an appreciative noise as he chewed.

"Is it good?" England asked, perhaps somewhat-hopefully, as he brought tea to the table and then went back for his pan.

"Nah," America said on swallowing. "It's even more burnt than usual, actually – but you know what they say! Hunger is the best spice."

"And the most valuable in times of difficulty," England agreed irritably, scraping the burnt-yellow-mess out of the pan onto a plate. "Eggs?"

"Is _that_ what that is?" America whistled sarcastically. "Jesus, England."

"Shut up. I thought you said you were hungry."

"I am." America held out his plate. "Sure. Eggs. Whatever you say."

"There are grilled tomatoes, too. I did those first."

"Those too. Whatever you got, pile it on. I'm fuckin' starving, seriously."

"Hm." England smirked as he sat down opposite him and passed across the cauterized tomatoes. "Well, say what you like about my cooking – you always eat it nonetheless. Besides, you can't ever argue that I don't feed you."

"True," America agreed breezily, smothering his eggs in pepper to try and kill the taste of burnt pan. "You've never let me go hungry. Sometimes I feel like those kids, you know, from that creepy old fairytale Germany used to tell – and the witch in the gingerbread house, which I could _seriously_ go for right about now, kept feeding them to fatten them up because she was gonna cook them."

England arched an eyebrow as he stirred his tea.

"You've no fear there," he replied levelly. "As if I'd eat _you_ – you'd be all gristle and fat, I expect, with no sweetmeats to spare."

America swallowed his mouthful of eggs indignantly.

"Oh yeah?" he replied. "Well… well, like _I'd_ eat _you_! You'd be all bones and… eyebrows and… and _Shakespeare_!"

England laughed.

"I suppose I deserved that," he said pleasantly over his tea.

America stared at him for a long moment, bewildered by the mirth England had displayed at his own expense, and then gave a snort and went back to shoveling his eggs into his mouth.

"You're in a good mood," he muttered around a mouthful. "…Wait! I got it. We're officially at war, right?"

England shook his head, slathering butter on a particularly-cremated specimen of toast.

"Not yet," he replied. "Soon, though, I expect. There has been no word from either Germany or Russia about a retreat."

"Is that your bated breath I hear?" America replied, sarcasm oozing as visibly as the strand of runny egg on his chin. How England managed to both burn _and _undercook eggs in the same pan, he would never know.

"Oh, hush. I'd rather there _wasn't_ a war, you know."

"I dunno," America replied thoughtfully, shrugging and mopping his mouth with a napkin. "You've been pretty antsy lately – all twitchy-like, you know?"

"Because I knew there was going to be a _war_, you fool," England sighed; he shook his head and took a bite out of his toast, chewing thoughtfully for a moment. "At any rate," he went on almost as soon as he'd swallowed, "I'm glad to see you back to your healthy obnoxious self, America."

America grinned.

"Ain't no ailment can keep me down!" he trilled agreeably. "Right as rain, that's me! Jeez, aside from Wall Street, I don't even _remember_ the last time I got sick." He frowned. "Did I even ever _get_ sick as a kid?"

"Not that I recall," England replied absently, nibbling daintily at his toast.

America paused in demolishing his own breakfast to watch England; it was ironic, really, that he was so delicate, so deliberate, about each of his actions in a domestic setting like this. Everything was just-so and by-the-book, the way he sipped his tea with a single raised pinky, the way he held cutlery with his index finger extended politely over the stem, the careful near-nibbling way he ate – his utterly flawless way of presenting himself. It made him seem curiously high-maintenance, like a spoiled little prince who couldn't bear to get a lick of mud on his shoes.

_Ironic_, when England was perhaps at his _happiest_ in a muddy battlefield, an apathy – even a _love_ – of war bred into him for centuries. This was how they got things done in Europe. This was how England had gotten his Empire. Even when he looked at England in peacetime – over strong shimmering drinks in crystal glasses during the Roaring Twenties, over barely-stronger-than-water drinks in lead tumblers during the Depressed Thirties – America could never quite shake that feeling off—

That one of the old colonial monsters lurked even now behind England's domesticated smile.

"What?" England asked, looking at him pointedly, noticing the dazed once-over America was giving him.

America blinked, snapped out of his reverie.

"What?" he replied stupidly.

"You were staring at me."

"Was I?"

"Ever so much."

"Oh." America looked back at his breakfast. "Sorry."

England rolled his jade eyes and lifted his teacup. Down the hall in the drawing room, the telephone began to ring, brash and demanding in the otherwise silent house.

"France?" America inquired as England put down his teacup again with a decisive _clack _before even taking a sip.

"Perhaps." England rose. "Stay here. I shan't be long."

America leaned back in his chair and finished his own tea as he listened to England's footsteps in the hall, growing fainter as he reached the drawing room. There went the door; just a few steps more and England would be at the desk and the phone.

"Hello?"

America had to listen quite intently but he could hear England well enough if he tried and didn't move a muscle. It had to be France again; no doubt the pair of them were beginning to get very excited about all this—

"Ah, bom dia."

America sat up. England's voice. But not English. That was odd. England _never_ spoke anything other than English, so proud of the language named after himself that he didn't bend to the ways of other nations, arrogantly expecting them to instead talk in _his_ tongue. America had, in fact, always assumed that England couldn't even _speak_ any other language, having never bothered to learn one just as America hadn't. And yet here he was, chattering away fluently in what sounded like…

America listened again, straining towards the hallway. …_Spanish_? Now of _all_ the languages that England _might_ have learned, America would never have thought it would be Spanish – maybe German, thanks to his friendships, at various times, with Germany, Austria and Prussia; or Japanese, even, from the Anglo-Japanese alliance; hell, even _Chinese_ so that he could bully China out of his tea more easily—

Or French. Perhaps. America had always felt that England probably _did_, in fact, know more French than he let on, given that he always seemed to know when France was insulting him even when it went over America's head.

But Spanish wasn't on that list. At all. All England had ever done to Spain was rob him blind and that didn't seem like the kind of thing you needed to speak Spanish for – the piracy sort of spoke for itself, really.

And then, suddenly, his mind supplied him the answer – déjà vu perhaps fed from a memory that wasn't his of a boy with tanned olive skin, brown curls and chocolate eyes. A boy who looked very much _like_ Spain but wasn't, sharing only his blood. His brother.

Portugal.

America drained his tea in a single scalding gulp and got up, slipping out of the kitchen and creeping quietly down the hall towards the drawing room; the door was slightly ajar and he could hear England much more clearly now, his accent odd and jarring around another language. He was fluent, though – America could tell from the way he didn't pause or hesitate at all, talking in musical Portuguese as naturally as he did in English.

It made him feel strangely… _jealous_. England had taught America English himself, broadening his vocabulary by showing him things and telling what they were called, reading to him with his fingertip trailing beneath every word as he spoke it, bringing him books back as presents from trips to Europe, sitting him at the oak desk when he was tall enough and helping him to write his name that first time. God damn, England wasn't _meant_ to speak anything other than English!

America moodily nudged the drawing room door open with a bit more with a little kick, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded. England hadn't noticed him, his back to the door as he pored over the big map paper-weighted down on the desk; he was playing idly with his bayonet, turning it this way and that, America watching it flash in the morning light streaming in as dusty golden columns through the large windows.

It made him think twice about sidling up behind him, at any rate.

England finally straightened again, turned to lean against the table, and America saw him smile.

"Muito obrigado," he said warmly. "Até a vista, Portugal."

He put down the phone in its cradle and leaned over his map again. America didn't say anything but remained against the door, scowling.

"I know you're there, America; I heard the door," England hummed, not looking up. "What's the matter, eh?"

"Nothing." America stepped into the drawing room. "So, aren't _you_ the little dark horse? I didn't know you could speak anything other than your precious King's English."

"Don't be a jealous brat," England replied shortly. "You're far too old for that sort of behavior now, don't you think?" He shot America an irritated look. "And don't pretend that you didn't know about my military alliance with Portugal, either. For goodness' sake, that pact is older than _you_!"

"I guess it slipped my mind." America juggled a nonchalant shrug as he came to the desk. "So, what's the deal with Portugal? Is he joining in? Selling you stuff? Coming to tea? What?"

"I'm not sure of the exact details," England replied. "As far as I know, he'd prefer to stay neutral, a wish that I respect – he has, however, agreed to meet with me today so that we can discuss some sort of military arrangement, at least."

"I'm coming too," America said immediately.

"No you are not," England answered coldly. "You barely even know him – and I know for a fact that you just want to come and glare at him across the table if he dares to so much as smile at me."

"Not at all!" America grinned a little _too_ broadly at him. "Your ally is my ally, England!"

"Be that as it may, we'll be conversing in Portuguese. You won't understand a word being said."

America shook his head, still smiling widely, showing too many teeth.

"I don't care, I want to come too!" he insisted; because hell if _that_ didn't make him all the more determined to sit in Portugal's immediate sphere as a physical, glaring reminder to him to keep his hands to himself. ...Maybe. America had to admit that he didn't know what Portugal was like – his shared memories of him were difficult to bring to the fore of his mind, buried so deeply in England's history – but he could only assume that he was somewhat like his brother and had little knowledge or care of the notion of personal boundaries. Like how it wasn't okay to slip his hands up under Romano's shirt in public.

England huffed irritably at him.

"Fine!" he snapped. "Come if it makes you happy – but don't sulk when you feel like you're being left out or ignored."

"Jeez, I'm not a _kid_," America retorted. "And hell, even if I _was_, it's not like I don't know how to sit quiet and let the adults talk."

England actually laughed at him.

"It always amuses me when you blatantly lie like that, America," he admitted, finally turning to him. "God knows you never like to be anything less than the center of attention at all times – and _my_ attention, specifically."

"Oh yeah? And how'd you figure that?" America took another step towards him, noting that England adjusted his grip on the bayonet ever so slightly – holding it properly, tightly, as though he felt that he might need to use it. It made America hold off from pushing him back any further, not wanting to make him feel that he was being cornered when he was wound all tight and dangerous like this and with a favored weapon in his hand, no less.

"You're proving my point right now," England bit out. "I told you to stay in the kitchen whilst I took the telephone call. No doubt you heard me speaking Portuguese and decided that you didn't like it—"

"And why did I have to stay in the kitchen anyway?" America interrupted; annoyed that England had seen right through him and now trying to redirect blame, to put England on the defensive. "What didn't you want me to hear?"

"_Nothing_!" England looked exasperated. "For God's sake, you can't speak Portuguese anyway so it's not as though I was trying to _hide_ anything from you—"

"So why did I have to stay in the kitchen?" America pressed, inching a bit closer.

"Is it too much to ask that I not have you tangled about my legs at all times?" England exploded. "There is no call for you to be so downright possessive!"

America blinked at him, taken aback by the outburst. England paled a shade the moment the words were out of his mouth.

"No, that's not… th-that's not what I meant…"

"Possessive, am I?" America asked coldly.

"That isn't…" England reached for him. "I didn't mean it—"

"That's a little rich coming from you, isn't it?" America cut in blithely, pulling his arm calmly out of England's reach. "You know, what with the whole empire thing you got going on, the whole—"

"_America_, I didn't _mean_ it—"

"They were still the worst words you could have picked!" America snapped, pushing him against the desk, pinning the hand holding that wretched bayonet to the surface to stop England from acting on any wild desperate ideas; the blade glinted coolly against the old map, over a third of the globe picked out in glorious red and labeled smugly with '_B.E_.'. "You have _no right_ to say something like that to me when you're still happily seated on your little throne of great cultural and intellectual supremacy over all these uneducated ill-bred heathens or _however_ you like to fucking justify yourself when you're nailing up a picture of Empress-Queen Victoria in some poor bastard's house—"

"Stop it!" England said fiercely, pushing back against America. "That's not possessiveness – it's _greed_ and I shan't be bullied or humiliated into being anything different than what I am, not by you nor by anyone else. If nothing else, the war will have its wicked way with me and take from me what I do not deserve."

"What about _me_, then?" America insisted. "That wasn't possessiveness? The more I tried to get away, the tighter you held on and don't even deny it. Damn, it took France hitting you from the other side to get you to let go!"

"That was—" England was trying to tug his trapped, armed hand free; America could feel him doing it.

"What?" America challenged, tightening his grip, leaning onto the limb. "_Different_? Why was it any different back then, strangling _me_ the way you strangle others now?"

"The _reason_ I wouldn't let you go was different!" England sounded frustrated as he suddenly sagged against the desk defeatedly. "_You_ were different, the whole thing was… it was just…"

"Different. Yeah. I got that." America reached behind England to the desk and took hold of the map, tugging it out from the beneath the paperweights holding it down.

Hesitating a moment as he let go of England's wrist, waiting to see if he'd need to grab hold of him again, America was satisfied enough to take the map in both hands when he saw that England was just looking at him rather despondently, not really reacting to anything anymore. America opened the map out before him, across his chest, so that England could see it. The red crosshatching looked like a shotgun spray, a patchwork blood pattern of domination made even more apparent when splayed across the United States of America.

"Guess you're pretty proud of this, huh?" he said in a low voice. "All this talk about _me_ being your magnum opus but I don't think that's the case – I think you regard _this_ to be your greatest work. This damn Empire of yours."

England looked away, gazing fixedly, distractedly, at the elaborate fireplace.

"Perhaps once," he agreed absently. "Yes, perhaps once I did. But you can't fail to have noticed that I've changed – since the war, since… since _she_ died." He shook his head. "Things are different now. This century, the way we fight wars… it's all so different. It makes priorities different." Glancing now at America, England nodded briefly, tiredly, towards the map. "Even if we win this war, rest assured that I won't come away with everything marked as mine on that map."

"That doesn't mean that you didn't—"

"I know – but I don't care, you see? It's not something that I have any control over." England tilted his head lazily. "Like a lot of things."

America let the map snap shut, clenching it in his fists angrily.

"I don't get you sometimes!" he said hotly. "You're all up in arms about Germany and Russia but at the same time you're so… I don't know, accepting and pessimistic, like no matter what you do, it's not going to make any difference to anything—"

"No, I don't think that," England interrupted. "I don't think that at all. The difference between myself and Germany is that I believed until fairly recently that my dominion of the world was more or less unwitting – the by-product, so to speak, of ignorance or weakness or depravity. I didn't plan to take over the world, it just happened over time due to either need or greed. However, Germany's present principled and elaborately-rationalized rape and plunder of the world is a new thing under the sun. You have to understand that things are infinitely more complicated now than when it was just two lines of soldiers with guns in a field."

"Like it was with _us_." America conceded glumly, grudgingly impressed that England would ever deign to call himself weak.

"Exactly. Just red and blue and those useless old muskets that wouldn't fire when the gunpowder was damp. Things have changed since then."

"…I guess so, but—"

"One thing hasn't, however." England was looking right at him and America was a little startled by the intensity of his gaze. "You ask why it was different with you? Because I didn't think you would survive on your own." He put up his hand to stop America's predictable outraged protest. "I know I was wrong but at the time I could be forgiven for not believing that you would live, that you would become what you are now. You would not have won if France hadn't helped you and you _know_ that."

"And that was reason enough to keep smothering me?"

"I know; that was wrong of me too." England shrugged helplessly at him. "But I loved you. I wanted you to be safe. I didn't want you to fall apart and break by yourself." He frowned. "I suppose I might have known that the tighter I held, the more you would struggle. It's in you, after all – to want freedom."

"…Yeah." Sobering at the calm honesty of England's words, spoken as neither defense nor excuse but rather as mere fact, America sighed. "That… that doesn't mean it was okay."

England rolled his eyes at his choice of word.

"I suppose I _was_ rather obsessively protective of you – but that's why you were different, why you're _still_ different. I loved you more than anything. I'd have given my life for you, America."

America smiled at him.

"You still do," he said, "and I bet you still would."

England grinned faintly.

"Perhaps, you prick," he said. "And I expect the feeling is mutual."

"Of course!" America said brightly. "I'm a hero! I'd sacrifice myself for you in a flash!" He laughed. "That might change the world, though, if I was gone. You know, since I'm so awesome and all."

"Mm." England brought up his bayonet again, swinging it idly back and forth for a moment before putting the point decisively against America's heart right over the map, not with enough pressure to puncture – just the weight of it letting him know it was there.

America blinked down at it, not terribly perturbed.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Just wondering," England said absently, turning the knife a bit.

"A little late for that, isn't it?" America asked mildly. "Back then – in red and blue with the muskets that wouldn't fire. That was your chance to do this and make things different."

There was a pause.

"You're right." England lifted away the bayonet and slumped back against the desk again. "You're completely right, of course. I had my chance. I didn't take it."

"Hey." America dropped one edge of the map, letting it roll up on its own into his other hand so that he could reach out and touch England's cheek with his knuckle, noticing that he turned his head away deliberately. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing." The first half of the word was a sigh.

"Nuh-uh, no, not biting." America shook his head violently to further augment his point. "You're being all sad and droopy and you're doing that cryptic thing again, you know I can't _stand_ that—"

"Well, the world doesn't run according to _your_ expectations!" England snapped.

"But _you_ do." America smiled at him again. "That's why I love you."

England still wouldn't look at him, seeming defiant in his bid to not meet America's gaze. He looked like he was perhaps about to cry.

"Hey, _hey_!" Feeling a little bit impatient now, America caught England up in his arms, embracing him – feeling that he was rigid in his grasp. "What's _wrong_? Did I upset you?"

"No." As though he was worn out, England sagged suddenly in his arms. "You've done nothing, America. I'm alright. Just… I'm just tired."

"Then let's sit you down, huh?" America hitched him up onto the desk. "Old man like you needs his rest! This is why you shouldn't stay up all night making war plans."

"…You noticed."

"Sure did. I missed my grabby little hot water bottle!"

"I couldn't _touch_ you without you springing a leak, let alone share a bed with you."

"Jeez, that's not what this is about, is it?" America tipped his head back and sighed deeply. "Look, you don't have to feel… you know, _guilty_ or anything; it was my decision to make and _I _made it, not you; it's not like I'm a kid or anything and I can't take responsibility. I mean, yeah, the sickness thing took me by surprise and I wasn't exactly happy about it but look, I'm fine, no lasting damage and I'm not _mad_ at you or anything, England!" He straightened again and took hold of England's chin. "See, we can touch, we can…"

He trailed off, thinking that a physical demonstration would be better received, and tipped England's face upwards and kissed him. He didn't expect England to react immediately and was surprised when he did, wrapping his arms around America's broad shoulders, still clutching grim-death to his bayonet, opening his legs a little so that America could press closer to him, hold him tightly; and America looped an arm around England's slender back with all the scars he now intimately knew beneath the shirt and braces, put his hand gently to the back of England's head, only dimly aware that he was still clutching the map in his other hand. For a long wonderful moment it was just them, sharing warmth, sharing breath, just the smallest slide of tongue, just the tiniest hint of teeth, just the faintest breath of a moan into his mouth—

And then, before he could be drawn deeper into the kiss, England abruptly pulled away and instead pressed his face to America's shoulder, clinging to him tighter than ever; the edge of the bayonet dug into his shoulder blade where England seemed to lose track of it between their intimacies.

"Oh, you old sap," America teased, squeezing him back. "If you want a cuddle, all you have to do is ask."

England didn't answer him, just hanging onto him as though his life depended on it.

"Right, right," America muttered. "You're too proud and mighty to stoop to that."

"Shut up." England heaved a shuddering sigh against him. "God, I love you, I… I just…"

"Hm?" America rubbed circles on England's back, feeling the bumps and twists of scar tissue beneath his shirt. "I love you too but there's no need to get all choked up about it, you know." He kissed England's hair. "But yeah, I love you too. Utterly undyingly unchangeably."

"Things _are_ going to change soon." It was muffled into America's shirt.

"Right, because of the war?" America shrugged. "It's just war. Been there before, right? 'Sides, you got my back, I got yours, we have Canada and France… It'll be okay." He laughed. "Wow, I can't believe _I'm_ saying this to _you_. You're the one starting the fucking thing!"

"I don't have any choice." England suddenly sat up again. "But you're right; I really ought to pull myself together."

"I didn't say _that_, exactly."

"Well, all this moping around won't get us anywhere."

"That's the spirit!" America pulled away from him with another broad grin. "Let's get out there and change the world!"

"Yes, let's." England pointed to the scrunched map in America's hand. "I say, hold that open again, won't you?"

"Uh…" America blinked, confused, but obeyed. "Sure, yeah, okay…"

The map blocked most of England from view and so America was shocked, to say the least, when the bayonet came sharply through it, stopping barely two inches from his chest.

"Jesus, England, watch where you're pointing that thing!" he burst out, looking over the map to see England cutting roughly around something. The weapon was finely honed so that it half-sliced and half-ripped through the paper. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Changing the world. Hold it taut now."

America held as still as he was able until England was done; he had cut out two pieces of the map and, after sticking his bayonet back into his belt, held them up to show them off.

"You cut us out of the world map," America observed bemusedly. "Uh… _why_?"

"To change the world, as you suggested." England glanced between the two flimsy bits of paper in his hands. "I think it looks better."

America turned the butchered map towards himself, taking note of the gaping holes in the diagram where the United States of America and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland had once been.

"I don't," he said flatly. "Canada's gonna fall into oblivion without me to hold him up!"

"I'm sure he'll be fine." England had turned away towards the desk and was leaning over it. "Besides, I didn't mean _that_ map. I meant this one."

America tossed the destroyed map over his shoulder and went to the desk. On the surface, cleared of everything else, were simply the two pieces cut out of the map positioned side by side.

"That's not a map," he said uneasily. "That's… just you and me and nothing else."

"Mm." England folded his arms. "No-one else to fuck things up, to invade someone else and drag us all into it. Just you and me and we can have a war if we want to but, if we _do_, we don't haul anyone else in with us. Everything is just you and me – whether we love each other or hate each other, the only ones who bear the brunt of anything we do or say are us and us alone."

America tilted his head thoughtfully.

"I guess… when you put it like that, it _does_… look better," he agreed, pushing the two pieces together so that they touched. "Sorta." He gave a nod and put a hand on England's shoulder, squeezing it. "Yeah. I like it, England."

Yet another sigh on England's part; but this time he smiled as he did it.

"I expect you would," he replied. "You would have my attention all the time then."

* * *

"_Angleterre." France adjusted his grip on Canada, holding the child more comfortably against his chest as he stood in the bathroom doorway. "I believe that everyone is assembled downstairs and taking the li__berty of rifling through your drinks cabinet."_

"_That is well," England replied distractedly, still kneeling over the bath with his sleeves rolled up. "I will be along shortly. I must attend to America first."_

"_Ah, yes, it will not do to have the children present," France said boredly. "Shall we bed them down together?"_

_England finally paused in scrubbing at America (who was sitting rather miserably in the bath batting uninterestedly at the little wooden toy boat floating before him, much quieter than was usual for him); he turned towards France._

"_I am not a babysitter," he said icily. "Why did you even bring Canada with you, knowing the nature of the discussion?"_

"_He is unwell," France said, nodding a little towards Canada as he did so. The child was curled against his chest, holding a fistful of France's cravat, eyes wavering uncertainly between opened and closed, heedless of the hot splotchy tears that continued to leak from them. "I did not like to leave him." He glanced at America, sitting subdued in the suds. "This little one does not look himself either."_

"_He is not," England agreed, rinsing the last of the soap out of America's gold hair. "I suppose it is to be expected. This happens every time we undertake negotiations of this sort." He reached for the towel next to the tub and unfolded it as he stood, wrapping it around America and lifting him dripping out of the bath. "Out you come, then, poppet, and we shall get you along to bed so that you can get some rest."_

"_Has he been like this all day?" France asked, rocking Canada in his arms as he watched England towel America off – America, who didn't protest or kick or giggle or try to squirm loose and flee._

"_Indeed. I am unaware of how they always seem to know beforehand but America has been sullen since he awoke this morning." England rubbed America's hair dry and put his shift on for him, leaning in to kiss the child on the forehead when he was done; America latched his arms around England's neck and clung uncharacteristically, whining something that was indistinct to France. "Now, America," England said patiently, lifting him. "It is late and you are not well. I think your bed is the best place for you, do you not agree?"_

_America started crying – but it was the distress of a tired and unhappy child as opposed to a tantrum, a weak and unceasing whine that couldn't be comforted, reasoned or bribed into silence. France had had to put up with it from Canada earlier. Both twins always suffered terribly during land negotiations, affected to sickness by physical shifts in their boundaries as dictated by agreements and signatures. Still, Canada had settled on the journey over, too worn down to do much else but doze feverishly with his head pillowed against France's collar – but now it looked like America's wailing was going to upset him all over again, for he started shifting distractedly in France's arms._

"_Give Canada to me." England put out his free arm, holding America, who was still fussing, tightly against his chest with the other. "I will put them to bed together so that they might keep one another company. You go on downstairs."_

_France had always been a little bit wary of handing over Canada to England, given how greedily and eagerly he had snatched up America for himself and how obsessively he doted upon him; he had always felt that it might be difficult to get England to give Canada, the other half of the complete set, back to him._

_Canada was definitely griping again, however, and France was tired of soothing him. Canada didn't often give him trouble and so he didn't know how to cope with him very well when he did. England, who had gotten the more troublesome twin, was better by experience at dealing with the fussing and whining; he managed to be simultaneously firm and patient._

_So he put Canada into England's outstretched arm without much argument. Canada didn't object much, perhaps too sleepy to even notice that he had been moved, snuggling against England instead. America swatted jealously at him and whined again when England told him off. France watched them from the top of the staircase, thinking that America was really something of a brat sometimes, ill or not; spoilt rotten by England and constantly pushing to see what he could get away with._

_Still, perhaps it was only natural that Canada, who had been fashioned out of only two ideologies instead of five, was gentler, calmer, easier to deal with. He did not even get as sick as America did at times like this._

_America was contesting about a bedtime story or a song, at least, when England kicked the door to America's bedroom shut behind him. France could hear the dispute no longer and retreated downstairs, pausing at one of the mirrors in the hall to check his appearance. Canada had been tugging at the collar of his royal blue jacket, which he straightened; and had pulled, too, at his hair a little, causing it to loosen from its ribbon. He tied the bow again, tighter, and was satisfied that he looked his best before venturing into the drawing room of England's Virginia house to rejoin the gathering of French and British landowners and court representatives. _

"_Francis!" One of his own envoys, a portly lord from the French court who still looked somewhat seasick from the voyage across the Atlantic, accosted him in French the moment he was through the door. "Mr Bonnefoy, there you are! We had begun to think that you would not return!" The lord glanced about. "Ah, are we still missing Mr Kirkland?"_

_France nodded._

"_He is putting Canada and America to bed. He will join us shortly." _

_The lord gave a nod of his own, putting a hand to France's back._

"_Yes, it would not be well to have the children in question running to and fro," he agreed. "Come then, Francis, and we shall get for you a nice glass of cognac. The British appear to have a taste for our best."_

_Incidentally, France was on his second glass of the stuff and the delegates were all beginning to get antsy even in their tipsy merriment when England finally appeared in the drawing room. He had made a quick effort to neaten himself up, putting on a cravat and jacket, but his hair was still disheveled and he looked worn out._

"_My apologies," he muttered, going straight to the table and flopping across his favorite armchair with the air of the teenaged pirate that he still hadn't quite shaken off yet. "It did not please America to settle but he tired himself out crying."_

"_Well, I suppose we might now begin," a British official said briskly, sitting himself._

_England lit himself up one of those thin little cigars he liked and leaned back as everyone else seated themselves and papers were rustled. France poured himself a top-up on his cognac before he sat opposite him, watching him. England wasn't all that old himself, barely out of his teens, and, despite being dreadfully ambitious, he didn't like things like this – all this paperwork over who owned what where; the bureaucracy that was a result of stability and yet it was just as easy to become lost in political paperwork quagmire as it was in the disorder preceding it. Once, when drunk, he'd muttered that it felt to him as though they were carving America and Canada up, hurting them – their own creations – over silly land quibbles. France had agreed but replied that it was a necessity nonetheless. England had regaled him with some very colorful language and then spent the rest of the evening passed out on the floor._

_He was scowling right now, looking up at the ceiling as the French and British representatives got themselves in order. France had observed before, not without some amusement, that England rarely smiled; oh, he would smirk, leer and even glower with upturned lips in order to taunt, coerce and intimidate, respectively, but never did he smile simply to convey joy. It was almost as though the emotion hurt his face. Nothing seemed to make him happy—_

_Except America. _

_To the point, in fact, where England practically worshipped the child. He took an unnatural pride in him, loving him neurotically, almost possessively. Perhaps it was mere arrogance, a subconscious narcissism that came from loving what he saw of himself reflected in the boy – his language, his mannerisms, his clothing. France couldn't be sure entirely but he was certain enough that England adoring America the way he did couldn't be healthy for either of them despite the fact that America seemed to greatly enjoy the attention, returning it just as fervently—_

_But England. Sometimes France was certain that England forgot – or deluded himself – that America wasn't like them. Flesh and blood, certainly, but in some ways more of a machine than any of the original European designs created primarily for war and conquest. America was not one of those – and whilst he had the potential to become a nation himself one day, he was yet different still. Above anything else he, like Canada, was an idea. _

_England had foolishly, vainly and irreparably fallen in love with an idea__ clothed in threads of vein, a corporeal cloak of bone and skin and downy hair disguising its intangible yet completely manufactured core – and France didn't know what he expected to gain from it. _

"_Gentlemen." The British envoy spoke again, looking around. "Before we look to the territorial issues, there is one thing to do with the twins themselves that must be attended to. Indeed, it is something which ought to have been addressed a very long time ago and I feel the need to again bring it up." _

_England's scowl deepened, trenches dug along his brow and mouth to accommodate the overflow of distaste. Heavens, France thought wryly, young though he was, he was going to get wrinkles at this rate._

"_I assume," a French military officer spoke up, "you mean the issue of human names for the children."_

_Ah. Human names. France closed his eyes as he sipped at his drink, savoring the smooth sear of it. That was, not names that referred to the nations themselves as "humans"; rather, names that humans, their citizens, could address them by. Francis Bonnefoy. Arthur Kirkland. Silly fabrications for the sake of "normalcy" – because humans thought it too peculiar to call their country by their true name when they appeared to be human too. Nations themselves never referred to each other by the names selected by their own citizens._

"_Indeed," the British delegate replied, looking to England. "Arthur, have you given any thought to the matter? America is hardly a baby and, as such, it strikes me that his contact with the citizens of British North America will begin to heighten as he grows. They will need a name to address him by." He looked to France. "The same applies to Canada."_

_France kept quiet, watching England; who exhaled __deeply through his nose, breathing out twin plumes of smoke as though a dragon calmly contemplating whether or not to torch an entire town._

"_France and I," he said at length, "have not discussed the subject, nor have I myself spared it any thought, gentlemen." _

_Another of the British higher-ups cleared his throat, looking a tad uncomfortable as the room fell eerily quiet following England's noticeably cool response._

"_Well then, Arthur," he said in a somewhat-strained voice, "it is high time that the issue was addressed. Virginia alone has been an established British colony some fifty years—"_

"_Arthur." England held his cigar loosely between his teeth, putting his hands up behind his head. "I do not even recall which of my old monarchs gave me that name anymore. It comes from the legend, of course – King Arthur and his Round Table. I wonder why it was easier for him to call me after a fictional Welsh hero of hand-me-down tales than it was for he, and all others after him, to call me by my name. My real name, I mean to say." He suddenly leaned forward again, putting his hands down on the table rather heavily. "I wonder, gentlemen, if it was because it allowed him to forget that I am not human – if the name 'Arthur' allowed him to think that I was like him, that I could die like him, __**for**__ him."_

"_Angleterre, do not make a scene," France purred, although he was admittedly enjoying the performance._

_Sometime in the mid-1500s, England had been bitten by the playwriting bug and bred the blighters like the Black Death, every weeping sore or swollen pustule or lungful of blood a new masterpiece. Romeo and Juliet tempted fate with forbidden love beneath the window of Dr Faustus, who hungered for knowledge the way Macbeth hungered for power and murdered for the crown like Claudius, taking what was not his birthright just as Volpone did. He had been drunk on what he called 'Bard's Blood' for a joke and it had made him delightfully dramatic, especially before a browbeaten audience. _

"_Well, what are our names, __**Francis**__?" England drawled it deliberately, taking his cigar from his mouth. "Little wounds of humanity inflicted upon us, making us servants to our courts and our crowns. As long as we answer to them, we are bound. That is good enough for us, we who were born into those bindings – but America and Canada are not nations and so they do not have citizens to call their own, nor to answer to by name or by nature. We made America and Canada ourselves and I will not negate the reasons for which we did so by enslaving them with a human name. I would urge you to do the same." _

_France arched an__ eyebrow, impressed. He had thought England was just being deliberately difficult – not that he truly felt that strongly about it. He took another sip of cognac, savoring it, perfectly aware that everyone in the room was looking at him expectantly. England's eyes were very vibrantly green across the pale poplar table. _

"_Gentlemen," France said at length, setting down his glass. "I am afraid I am going to have to agree with my dear, ah, colleague on this occasion. Heaven knows that for Angleterre and I to agree on anything is a rarity in itself but he is, to my surprise, absolutely correct. I too will not agree to select a human name for Canada, nor will I sign anything put forward by any of you regarding the matter. I will sign for neither Canada nor America."_

"_And __**I **__will not sign for America or Canada," England said coldly. "We are agreed. Neither twin is the property of any human."_

_There was a long, uncomfortable moment of silence which France, for one, enjoyed with a certain amount of smugness. England, too, looked rather pleased with himself._

"_N-now see here, both of you!" the first British official blustered. "What we do not own by name we certainly do by land!"_

"_But not by ideology," France pointed out kindly._

"_That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet__," England sighed, leaning back again to drag on his cigar. "I say, speaking of land, is that not why we are convened here? Can we not get to it? The children are not well – due, of course, to these negotiations entirely – and I do not like to leave them unattended."_

_The envoys seemed to acknowledge that they had been beaten, their fierce collective composure wilting under the bright glare of noncompliance. There was a lot of muttering in English and French as papers were rustled again and passed about._

"_Some of these need only your signatures, gentlemen," a French delegate explained. "Some require both, others need only one. There is quite a bit of reading to do, I fear."_

_England sighed like a dying swan __and rose, fetching two quills and ink wells from his desk and coming back to the table. He sank back into his chair, pulled the first of the sheets towards himself and began to read; France watched him scowl again and smiled before looking down with his own paper._

_They remained that way for some time, silence reigning as they read and signed and passed papers back and forth between each other; the uncomfortable hush was punctuated only by the splash of wine here or the murmuring of French or English there._

_And then the door creaked opened._

_America came pattering into the room first, pulling Canada along behind him by the hand. They both looked very unwell, their faces flushed and damp and yet chalk-white beneath the heat-blush._

_America obviously hadn't expected the room to be full of middle-aged foreign representatives and stopped dead in the centre; Canada, who appeared to be following him blindly, bumping into him. France put down his quill and watched him with mild interest, wondering what he would do now that he realized he had an audience – he was an attention-seeker when he was feeling himself, after all._

_America glanced wildly about for England and took another bolder step forward when he located him._

"_Canada was sick," he announced, his voice quavering as though he was on the verge of choking. "All over the bed."_

_He started coughing and Canada pulled away from him; France took a brief, guilty look at the document he had just signed – an agreement to the movement of a Canadian border – and noted that that had probably been the cause of Canada throwing up._

_Canada came running over to him and started crying as France bent to lift him into his lap._

"_Sshh, there now." France whispered to him in French and cuddled him close as he sobbed, the soft heaving interspersed with little wet hiccups. _

"_This… this is most irregular!" a French officer said, standing and looking haughtily down his nose. "We cannot have the children in here whilst we discuss these matters. Someone needs to take them back to bed—"_

"_We are almost done here, it would seem," England said, fixing the man with a stare settling somewhere between frigid and permafrost. "America, come here."_

_America didn't move, still coughing a bit as he looked around, surveying his audience again as his eyes finally adjusted to the brightness of the room. Still France watched him. He was unpredictable, this one, his lands sometimes surprising and cruel and his behavior not far behind. France had seen him kill a copperhead before; still a few feet off, perfectly still and camouflaged in the leaf litter, little America had pitched a rock at it before France even realized there was anything there at all, quick and merciless in his defense of himself._

_Honestly, maybe it was just that funny look his illness had put in his eye but France was half-expecting him to shoot the room a coy smile and lift his shift. England seemed to notice the wild rim of his gaze as well and quickly headed it off. _

"_America, come here this instant!" _

_He__ banged the table to capture America's wandering attention and the child finally fled to him, scrabbling at his lap as he reached him._

"_Lift me!" he demanded, holding up his arms. He whined when England did not pick him up. "England!"_

"_In a moment," England replied, rubbing at America's hair with his free hand as he signed another document. "I just need to do this, my lovely, and then we shall be away to bed."_

_One of the British envoys slammed down his empty glass and stood, the wine transforming itself into a red belligerent haze across his visage._

"_A good thing it is indeed that you creatures do not breed often," he spat disgustedly._

"_Ah, is it not?" France agreed cheerfully. "I think these two must be the very first of their kind – although rest assured that Angleterre's pregnancy was far from a pretty one."_

_Well, it was worth the silent roomful of shocked expressions; even England smirked at the collective reaction instead of irately back-lashing against the insinuation, trying to read over something as impatient America physically clambered into his lap, grabbing at his jacket to anchor himself. _

_The confrontational British delegate did not appear to take the insult kindly; his face darkened past the drunk flush and took on a shaking and angry red._

"_How could you possibly have the audacity to suppose that a human name makes us believe that you are anything but monsters?" he hissed. He pointed first at America, then at Canada. "Make all the vile jokes you wish, defend your actions by insisting that the children – if we can __**even**__ call them such – are ideas and ideals! All they are is beasts bred of other beasts!"_

"_Oh dear," France hummed. "What remedy do you suggest? Burning at the stake like witches?"_

_The delegate flushed furiously._

"_You had no right to make others," he said in a low voice._

_England snorted, adjusting fidgety America over his shoulder as he read over the last document._

"_My "pregnancy" is, of course," he said lightly, "a fabrication of France's lewd manner – I quite assure you that nations are unable to reproduce as you humans do, even the females amongst us. Our liaisons do not bear fruit and, as such, while it is in us to want to spread and conquer, the desire to reproduce as our citizens do is not." His tone was aloof, not even bothering to fix the man with a glacial stare after his last ignorant outburst. "Yet __**you**__ are the ones who treat us like humans. Names, meetings, signing documents. Indoctrinate us enough and we are bound to begin to think like you, no matter how I wish it was not so. We had ideas. We had things we wanted to pass on, not simply beat into those we conquered. We wanted to create. So we did." He smirked again. "In that case, you might say that it was not we as nations who "gave birth". It was Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy and Antonio Carriedo – the humans __**you**__ named."_

"_I say we burn Angleterre at the stake," France sighed gleefully, grinning at the humiliated British official – who had finally slumped kowtowed back into his chair. "He is clearly a witch, for tonight he has a truly spellbinding way with words."_

"_Have I not?" England sang in reply, signing the last document with a flourish._

_The moment he did so, America lurched against him. England froze and France, still cuddling Canada close, burst out laughing._

_America had been spectacularly sick all down England's back._

—

_America was crying again._

_France sighed into Canada's hair, bundling him closer to his chest to keep him sleeping. The door muffled the sound somewhat but America's wailing was still audible – he was hot and irritable and tired and wouldn't settle no matter what England did for him, just clinging to him and crying. Down the hall in the guest bedroom with Canada, it had taken France long enough to get his own small charge to sleep and the last thing he wanted was him woken again by his twin; he could hear footsteps in the hallway, the same ones repeated over and over again, and knew that England was pacing the passage, half-distracted, trying to lull America to sleep in his arms as though he was a newborn, singing soft but clear in the silent house._

_They were all old songs, nursery rhymes, folk stories weaved to a tune; Ride a Cock-horse to Banbury Cross, London Bridge is Falling Down, Wee Willie Winkie. He sounded despairing, exhausted, and still America cried. The child seemed to be trying to make England as miserable as he had been all day, taking out his sickness on England's already-starved sleep schedule._

_The envoys, of course, had taken up their papers and left, satisfied if not mollified. They had their signatures, their permission to shift and push things about as they pleased. That was enough for them._

_Oh, humans died for their countries, for names and for kings and for queens; but they did not suffer under the physical act of carving out history like this. In time, it would be commented upon by only the most exceptionally-narrowed focus of a historian that in the year of X, borderline Y of country Z had been moved five meters to the West – but no human would know how country Z had suffered with a fever that would not break, nor indeed that wars caused unspeakable scars that nations had no choice but to bear._

_Some hours later, silence had finally fallen. Thirsty, France tucked Canada in again as he rose, pressing a cool hand to the child's prickling forehead for a moment before going to the door and slipping out to fetch a glass of water from the jug standing in the hall. He noticed, as he raised the glass to his lips, that England's bedroom door was cracked open, the flickering light of a dying candle still spilling forth like a narrow thread into the hall._

_With his gold hair battlefield-wild around his face, France opened the door a little more and stood in the gap, perfectly still as he observed the bed. Both occupants were asleep, if fitfully, their odd positions speaking of having fallen into uncomfortable slumber whilst sobbing and soothing, respectively. America was wrapped up tightly in England's scarred arms, his small face pressed to the crook of England's shoulder, half-buried beneath him. _

_It was a wonder the child could even breathe.

* * *

_

"What's wrong?"

Canada's soft, lilting dialect of French fluttered up on the morning haze. Lifting his cigarette from his mouth, France turned towards him, the bedsheets rustling as they twisted to follow his motion. Still lying down, Canada was looking up at him from the pillow.

"Ah, I'm sorry," France purred at him. "Did I wake you? I know it's still early."

"I did smell the smoke," Canada agreed, wrinkling his nose in distaste, "but I think I was waking up anyway." He frowned, his lilac eyes taking on a serious tint. "Are you worried about something? You were staring off into space."

"Just thinking," France sighed. "Just remembering. It's nothing important." He smiled down at Canada kindly. "Don't worry yourself."

Canada, as a rule, was less oblivious than his brother; he didn't look particularly pacified by France's words but he gave a sigh of his own and snuggled closer, pillowing his head on France's chest. France began carding his fingers through his hair the moment it splayed across his breastbone, noting once more that it really was very similar to his own. As was America's, actually, darker and silkier than England's wild straw-blonde thatch. The eyes, too – Canada's a dusky, bluish heather and America's a really brilliant, vibrant shade of cerulean. Neither of them had inherited England's cool glittering jade, their azure tints more complimentary to France's own; and they were not pale or pint-sized like England either, their vast tracks of lands assuring their height difference. But for their language, it was almost as though England had had no part in their creation as physical beings.

And yet America had spent more of his life stapled to England's side than not, honestly and absolutely clingy at times; and despite once revolting against him, the fact that America had been easily lured back into England's grasp and was content to stay there was proof that America was actually fairly dependent on England, at least subconsciously. Since the First World War, it was rare to see one without the other, America always hanging off England in one way or another – as though he couldn't bear to be without him.

France had, of course, noticed that sort of behavior in America before. It wasn't good. In a lot of ways, America was little more than an imprint, in part, of England – and their suffocatingly-close relationship made him fester beneath the dominant culture of the original. America incorporated many different nations into his own fabric but England's colors were by far the most vibrant, gifting even the tints of his Union Flag to the Star-Spangled Banner. Surely England knew that – that nothing could possibly come of smothering America all over again as he had before. _Worse_, in fact; this was worse because now England was _sleeping_ with him as well, molding himself – the British Empire – as the basis of America's desire, as the thing that he loved. Certainly a sexual relationship was invaluable in these instances for strong military ties and good international relations but England was undoubtedly doing America more damage than good even so.

But it was too late. There was nothing France could do now. America was independent and _chose_ to latch himself back on to England despite it; whispering _Révolution_ in his ear now would bear no fruit.

Not if America was carrying England's history within his heart.

"_Something's_ wrong," Canada said in a low voice; he shifted and looked up at France. "You're too quiet."

"Just thinking how much you look like your brother," France replied lightly, going back to his cigarette while continuing to stroke Canada's hair, a fine distraction for both of them.

Canada gave a snort.

"Of course I do," he said, casting his gaze away again. "We're twins."

"Mmm," France agreed. "It is unmistakable."

_And so I wonder if I am doing __you the same damage that England is doing America._

"Canada," he went on suddenly, "I wonder, do you think I am a hypocrite?" He kneaded at Canada's skull as though he was a cat in his lap. "You see, whilst the unresolved sexual tension between your brother and England was intolerable, I have never been particularly supportive of their relationship nonetheless. There are things about it that don't sit right with me."

Canada exhaled deeply.

"And you think this is hypocritical, then?" he asked, sounding more than a little miffed. "You and I?"

"Do you think it is? Surely it isn't fair of me to criticize England for taking America to his bed when I do the same with you – when I have been doing it longer, in fact."

Canada shook his hand off and sat up, looking a bit irritable.

"I suppose it is," he said coolly, "but, you know, it also isn't fair of you judge their relationship to begin with, nor is it right to tar America and I with the same brush. I am not him – and you are not England. Therefore our relationships are different solely on that basis—"

"Not in the way that I am considering," France cut in glumly.

"The age gap, then?" Canada shrugged. "There's a difference there, too. England is younger than you are, meaning there is a smaller gap in age between him and America than there is between you and me – not that our physical age has much relevance to us as nations – but America is still too immature to realize that constantly calling England an old man is kind of in bad taste."

"Thankfully I don't have to put up with that immaturity from you," France agreed distractedly. "I got the nice one."

"As opposed to the sickly one who spurts blood all over the kitchen?" Canada pressed stonily, folding his arms with an angry pout. "France, don't play dumb. I know you know what's going on with that. What exactly did England do to him?"

"Something stupid," France replied, stubbing out his cigarette in the glass ashtray on his bedside table. "Still, it takes two to tango. England didn't force it on him – although I admit that America probably didn't understand quite what he was getting himself into due to England undoubtedly leaving a few important details out of his hard sell."

Canada blinked confusedly at him.

"I… I don't…"

"Let's see, how to put it simply?" France linked his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. "Well, consider, then, that they are now closer than ever before – irreversibly linked, in fact. Closer than love, than marriage, than a military alliance. The fact is, Canada, that the blood America's body was throwing out last night was not his own."

Canada scowled, leaning forward to get into France's diverted field of vision.

"Don't talk in riddles, France," he said irritably. "How… how could America have had… someone else's blood in his veins—?"

"If someone put it there, of course," France cut in lightly. "If _England_ put it there – which he did. That is why America was so unwell last night. It is perfectly natural that his system would need time to adjust to having that sort of strain put upon it, that new weight—"

"You still not making _sense_!" Canada cried. "What's all… _systems_ and… and God, what are you _talking_ about?"

France laughed amusedly at him.

"Perhaps _this_ is the only reason why England left details out," he mused. "I suppose it _is_ difficult for you to understand – you and America are newer than us, you think differently to us. The fact that you're the smarter one doesn't appear to have made much difference to your ability to grasp—"

"_France_!" Canada pounced at him, losing his patience, and pinned him by the shoulders against the headboard; France made an appreciative, encouraging noise even as Canada glared at him. "What has England done to my brother?"

"Put his history into him," France said easily. "America is now carrying both sets. It's no wonder his body panicked and started trying to expel the goriest parts."

Canada stared at him, frozen in place with shock. France took the opportunity to slide up his knee and nudge it against Canada's side, overbalancing him so that they tumbled into the same position in reverse; Canada barely even acknowledged that he'd been pinned to the bed, his lilac eyes still wide with confusion.

"This isn't going to be any fun if you're unresponsive," France pouted.

Canada expression slowly mutated from silent shock to stunned, yet determined, inquiry.

"How?" he asked suddenly. "How did England…? I mean, how is it possible to… to put your history into another nation?"

"There's only one way of doing it," France said, sitting back on him. "If I wanted to do it with you, I'd take out some of my own blood and inject it into your vein. It is highly unpleasant for the receiving party since it has to fight for space within your body and the history already residing there doesn't take well to the intrusion."

"Is that what England did to America?"

"Yes." France started to draw patterns on Canada's bare stomach, skating lower in anticipation.

"Why?" Canada sat up, batting France's hand away with a renewed sense of urgency. "Why would they…? I don't understand why either one of them would have wanted that." He irritably shrugged France away when, undeterred, he leaned in and started kissing his neck. "_France_! This is serious!"

France leaned back with an odd smile on his face.

"You don't realize just _how_ serious," he countered. "Pangaea is not without consequence. England will not get away with duplicating his history."

Canada's eyes widened again.

"What… what'll happen to him?" he asked softly. "Will he… die?"

France shook his head and sighed.

"Not die, per se," he replied. "But history will come and take him to counter the duplication. It won't take America because he has his own single history that has not been duplicated anywhere else – but England has nothing unique to offer the history books anymore with America to fill in his place."

"Why would America have agreed to that?" Canada burst out. "I know he can be selfish but he's not… he would never—"

"America has no idea what he's done," France hummed. "I assure you that England didn't tell him that part."

"_Why_, then?" Canada asked, leaning in closer to France, anger finally coming to round off the edges of shock. "Last night, when you sent me up to the bathroom with that shirt for America, you said you wanted to have a word with England and to keep America away from the study. Wasn't that what you were talking about? Why did England do this?"

France gave a helpless shrug.

"Because he _wants_ to disappear into history's deepest recesses, it would seem," he sighed.

He got off Canada and sat on the edge of the bed, knowing he had been beaten in his conquest; reaching down for his shirt, he pulled it on and began to button it. Canada was clearly too distracted right now and there would be other opportunities to jump him during the day, after all.

"What about the war?" Canada asked, clenching the sheets in frustrated fists. "Aren't we supposed to be going to war with Germany? England can't just—"

"Ah," France interrupted agreeably, "so you see my issues. One of them, anyway."

"You… we can't _let_ him—"

"It is done." France shook his head. "It is irreversible, Canada. England will have his way at history's expense."

"And what about America?" Canada asked in a low voice. "He won't be okay with this, you know; he'll—"

"Yes, I know – but that is what this all comes back to," France said tiredly. "America. Arguably it _always_ takes something cataclysmic to separate the two of them but, as with back then, I admit that I don't know if England is doing this because he loves America or because he can't bear to be wrong about him."

—

_Too long France had watched America cling to England as though absolutely inseparable from him__, bound by invisible roots to his source. It was obvious to any outsider that the backward dependence wasn't doing America any good – why, he had even stopped growing, his appearance reaching that of about a fifteen year old and then remaining completely unchanged for decades. Nations ceased to age physically once they had reached a comfortable level of maturity and were able to look after themselves. Until then, they grew and developed not unlike humans._

_And yet America had stopped ageing before he had fully bloomed. He was going to be stuck in a teenaged body for the rest of his life if he stayed with England, as long as he stayed a colony. France didn't understand why neither of them could see it. _

_So he waited. At the next land ownership meeting, when America fussed that it was too early for bed when England ordered him upstairs, when he argued that he should be allowed to be present at a discussion about __**his**__ lands, France slipped into the tiny rift it broke between them and widened it by brushing America's gold hair aside so that he would better hear him as he whispered that one tiny word – a disease and a mechanism; a virus, a plague and a cure – in his ear._

"_Révolution."

* * *

_

America took another moody sip of his bourbon. He was sulking, which was exactly what he'd promised England he wouldn't do; but it was difficult to do anything _other_ than sulk when he couldn't understand a word being said and thus couldn't interject with some loud, cheerful, poorly-thought-out statement as was his usual method.

That alone would have put him into a bad mood, for if there was one thing that the United States of America couldn't _stand_, it was being ignored. Or left out, at least. But they were pretty much ignoring him to boot.

And then, on top of that, there was England. And Portugal. Who were practically flirting with one another.

Portugal looked very like his brother – the same cappuccino-colored skin, the same rich curly hair, pushed back off his round face but nonetheless bouncing at his cheeks when he moved his head. He had the same wide smile, too, friendly, almost vapid – that could yet no doubt turn cruel. He was smaller than Spain, though, shorter and narrower with rounded shoulders; and his eyes were brown, not the same olive green as his sibling.

He wasn't in military uniform, making him an odd contrast to America and England in their similar ones; instead he was dressed in what America supposed was some kind of traditional-casual Portuguese clothing, his white shirt only loosely laced up beneath the black velvet waistcoat embroidered with almost every color imaginable in the design of flowers with swirling stems and a decorative rooster adorning each pocket.

(They were highly-distracting.)

Anyway, America was _pretty_ _sure_ England and Portugal weren't talking about the war, even though they had a few maps out. Oh, he couldn't understand them, obviously; but they were laughing too much and talking very quickly and smiling. Portugal was very physical, too, perhaps even _worse_ than Spain, constantly putting a hand on England's elbow, on his shoulder, on his back. Even _more_ annoying was that England didn't appear to _mind_. If France touched him like that, England just about broke his arm, which was fair enough; but sometimes he even shrugged America away if he touched him too much, saying that he wasn't about to disappear and didn't need America to hold onto him to keep him grounded in the real world.

So America just sat opposite them in the booth at the back of the tavern and scowled over his bourbon, thinking he might deliberately get so drunk on the stuff that he had an excuse for interrupting them, lett his inhibitions float away on a stream of alcohol so he could just sling his arm across England's shoulder and pull him in for a kiss while Portugal stared on, perhaps as jealously as America did now. Maybe he would even drink himself into a blackout so that England had to carry him home and it would serve him right, too. Who did he think he was, flirting with his old flame right in front of his current one? Of course, America had no proof of any kind of sexual encounter between the two of them but he felt that it was pretty obvious, given how comfortable they seemed with one another. Perhaps it hadn't been anything serious, not a proper relationship like America had with England now, but the way England leaned into Portugal's touch ever so slightly even when he was sober and in public meant that it wasn't too far of a leap to suppose that an England – a younger, teenage England – drunk and not in public might have been easily tempted into Portugal's bed. Or vice versa. The dynamics of the thing didn't matter. The attraction was obviously there no matter what, even now.

Portugal said something in a low voice (it all sounded like gibberish to America) and reached for his port; England reached out and put his hand on his to stop him, replying with a small shake of his head, and America clenched his own glass tighter. The jealousy flared in him when he saw England touch Portugal even though it was such a simple gesture; he couldn't help it. He had never seen England act this way with anyone other than himself and even _then_ England was still kind of a jerk to him sometimes; he seemed to be _nicer_ to Portugal, in fact. He hadn't scowled or rolled his eyes at him once, perhaps proof that Portugal didn't annoy him the way America did.

…Maybe that wasn't all of it. Maybe England just genuinely preferred Portugal, his oldest ally, a fellow European; exotic enough, though, blessed with those Mediterranean good looks like his brother, like the Italies. He, too, had once been an Empire – perhaps England could relate to him far better for that; and he was well-versed in war like England, having fought the same kinds as him for centuries but never once _against_ him. And the sex was probably better, too, with Portugal, who was about the same age as England and had had just as many alliances; who had a better sense of romance, no doubt, who was an equal instead of inexperienced and isolated like America, with whom England had to do most of the work in order to satisfy them both. With Portugal it might be heady and heated and passionate; with America, even after all these years, sometimes it was still clumsy and exasperating and America spent half the night thereafter kissing him all over not avidly but apologetically.

America glanced gloomily at Portugal; barely touched by the recession of ten years before, unscathed by the Great War, he seemed radiant now under the rich amber light of the darkening tavern as he leaned back in his seat and sipped at his port, listening to England speak his language with an interested smile on his face. America didn't think that England would ever _cheat_ on him but he didn't imagine it all that farfetched that England might prefer Portugal over him all the same.

He drained his bourbon and got up, thinking that going to the bar for another would nicely kill five minutes; he interrupted Portugal carelessly, addressing England:

"Hey, I'm heading to the bar again," he said, shaking his empty glass so that the ice rattled and clinked. "You need a top-up on your poison, doll?"

"Ah, no, I'm quite alright," England replied, tapping the side of his pint; the beer wasn't even half gone, so immersed was he in talking to Portugal that he appeared to have forgotten that he was a borderline alcoholic. "Thank you all the same."

"América," Portugal drawled suddenly in his rich, musical accent, "if it would not trouble you, I would like a top-up on _my_ poison. Porto Cálem, fine tawny. Simply half a glass will do."

America _stared_ at him, mouth swinging open on soundless hinges. England, conversely, suddenly seemed terribly interested in his beer after all.

"What the hell?" America pointed accusingly at Portugal. "You speak _English_?"

Portugal looked amused.

"Of course I can speak English," he said pleasantly. "And Spanish and French besides. You are surprised?"

"Uh, _yeah_?" America scowled. "I thought _he_ was only speaking in your language because _you_ can't understand _ours_!"

Portugal shook his head, smiling.

"This is a discussion of a military nature," he said, "and you find yourselves upon the doorstep of war. England and my own brother are the only two of my acquaintances who have ever bothered to learn my tongue. Conversely, many nations, including Germany, can speak English. Therefore Portuguese offers a sense of privacy in these matters that English does not."

It was a perfectly sound reason, much to America's chagrin. Nonetheless, he was still pretty sure they hadn't been talking about the war the entire time. That, and his dislike of Portugal had suddenly spiked even more – to the extent that even thinking that he should sit here out of spite to make sure Portugal didn't get even more touchy-feely the moment his back was turned didn't win out against suddenly wanting to get away from him to prevent himself from knocking that too-friendly-beam into the middle of next week.

"I'm going to the bar," America said icily, snatching up his bomber jacket, "and I think I'm gonna stay there. Come get me when you're ready to go, England."

"Alright," England said blandly.

America paused, smoldering. England wasn't even going to protest that he was being childish and demand that he sit down and not storm off to sulk. America almost _wanted_ him to.

But England said nothing, still engrossed in the foam crowning his drink.

So America stalked away with as much panache as he could manage considering that even _he_ knew he was being petty and jealous.

_Still,__ it's not every day you meet your match_, he thought irritably, knowing he would never ever admit that thought aloud.

—

"Well, well," Portugal commented in his own language, tilting his head as America stomped away, "didn't _he_ grow up to be charming?"

"Oh, he grew up, certainly," England replied, easily slipping back into Portuguese himself. "Into a bigger pain in the neck than ever."

"But he's so very handsome, too." Portugal turned to glance at America at the bar, fuming and hunched over and unwittingly showing off his ass. Portugal shook his head, turning back. "I would never have thought it of that snotty little thing you used to cart around under your arm all the time."

"He's certainly full of surprises," England agreed, looking past Portugal to also appraise America's turned back. "I keep forgetting that you haven't seen him for centuries."

"And I never thought that I was missing out but I'm impressed, I have to admit." Portugal whistled. "And the glasses?"

"Ah, what you might call an "upgrade"," England said. "From his first government. He didn't ever need them under my care but I suppose a brand-new nation is bound to be somewhat short-sighted. Still, even I would never say that that... _lot_ weren't good at thinking outside the box."

"You mean Washington," Portugal purred.

"Yes, him," England said moodily.

"And Franklin."

"Mm, him too."

"And Jefferson and Adams and—"

"Yes, _alright_, Portugal," England interrupted, frowning at the deliberate needling. "I'm so glad to see that you brushed up on that, at least."

"Only to tease you with," Portugal said with a grin. "You're adorable when you get all flustered."

"There are better ways of doing it than poking at old wounds, don't you think?"

"Ah, but all the _other _old ways are probably off-limits now," Portugal sighed, resting his chin in his hands. "Does that little spot behind your ear still drive you crazy?"

"That's none of your business," England said curtly; but he smirked briefly at Portugal all the same.

"Maybe not," Portugal sang. "But it's _his_." He nodded in the direction of the bar. "And I'll bet he doesn't even know."

"No, he doesn't. Things like that... aren't his strong point."

"Oh, my," Portugal said brightly, sitting up again. "England, I do believe we're having a discussion about your sex-life and how awful it is. How delightful."

"It's not _awful_," England said flatly. "He's just... young. And I'm his first and only. And the Puritans got to him before I did, at least subconsciously."

"How simply dreadful," Portugal incited gleefully, clapping his hands together. "You must be beside yourself."

"I don't mind. He's more conservative than I was at his age but I suppose it's not really his fault. I did my fair share of damage to him when he was my colony, always keeping him to myself, and then neither Washington nor Jackson, to name but two of the culprits, did him any favors by telling him that he shouldn't touch any other nation with anything less than a ten foot pole if it could be helped."

"A bout of piracy on the high seas would have cleared that up."

"It was no longer a remedy by the time he came of age."

"Ah. Shame." Portugal smiled wistfully at him. "I suppose you probably _don't_ mind, though, do you? Not if you love him."

England paused.

"I expect you think I'm an idiot for it," he said in a low voice, not meeting those inquisitive eyes.

Portugal shrugged.

"Perhaps a little bit," he admitted. "But I suppose I'm also somewhat flattered. There's a bit of _me_ in him, after all."

"It's not as though he doesn't return it."

"No," Portugal said softly, "I can see that. He clearly adores you. Certainly enough to be jealous of me."

"It doesn't help that you were playing him up," England said tartly. "I notice you haven't touched me once since he left."

"Well," Portugal pouted, walking his fingers up England's arm as though to make a point, "I _was_ here first and I wanted to let him know that, if only for his own good. He can't be so naïve as to think that there haven't been others."

"I don't know. He doesn't... he _doesn't_ think like us. Neither does Canada. That was entirely the point, if you recall."

"Of course. Still, in that case, maybe you shouldn't be fucking him."

England laughed.

"That's rich," he said, "coming from someone who fucks his brother."

Portugal winked at him.

"Only when that brat Romano isn't looking. Of course, I've fucked Romano too – but don't tell Spain."

"Did I leave you that cold and lonely, Portugal?"

Portugal snorted with laughter.

"It's not so much a case of that so much as it's Spain will fuck just about anything," he drawled. "I hear France had to sodomize a _tree_ to wrest that title off my brother."

"I feel for the tree."

"Oh, I'm sure you do – knowing the feeling, that is."

England sipped at his beer.

"Why is this conversation so firmly in the gutter?" he asked.

"Because, England, you want to brag about sleeping with the United States of America," Portugal explained patiently. "Perhaps only subconsciously, like his Puritan thing, but that's what you want. That's why you brought him along even though his presence isn't needed, a pretty little ornament to dangle about your arm; Exhibit A, the dashing young thing you pound into the mattress on a nightly basis. I assume it's _always_ a mattress if he's that conservative—"

"I _didn't_ bring him, actually," England replied icily. "He insisted on coming."

"Ah, because he was jealous of me before he even saw me," Portugal said with a nod. "Understandable."

"This isn't about me _sleeping_ with America!" England snapped.

Portugal grinned lazily at him.

"But it's about him nonetheless," he sighed, trailing a finger along England's jawline. "Come on, England. It's not like you to be shy - and besides, I'm not an idiot. Spit it out, darling."

England shook his head away from Portugal's roving touch.

"I... I need to hand something over to you," he said stiffly. "Please don't question it."

"Ah, is it the fabled pornography collection crafted by medieval monks chained to their desks by day and by night, the very existence of which you have always vehemently denied?"

"No, I'm going to hang on to that," England replied absently, reaching under the table again for the leather case in which he had brought the maps. He set it in his lap and, after checking that America wasn't in the process of making a dramatic comeback to the table like the poor jilted lover he was, unclasped it and held it open towards Portugal.

Portugal rested his chin in his hand as he looked down into the case, his eyebrows raising when he saw the shrouded contents.

"Is that—?" he murmured, lowering his voice even though the language should have disguised their conversation regardless.

"Yes."

"Why are you—?"

"I asked you not to question it. Please, just take it. I can't give it to someone... someone I don't trust."

"I'm neutral, England," Portugal replied, frowning. "And he's allied with you. And you're _certainly_ not neutral."

"I know. It doesn't matter if you're neutral. In fact, that's even better."

"Even so, perhaps France...?"

England shook his head.

"No," he said. "France already has Canada's and... and besides, I don't know if France is going to be able to hold off Germany and I just... well, I'd rather give it to you."

Portugal's dark eyes gleamed.

"For the irony?" he asked softly.

"Perhaps just a little bit," England admitted with a grin of his own.

"I never thought you would give this away. You've held onto it for all these years, even when he broke away from you. You wouldn't even hand it over to his Founding Fathers."

"It is a weapon not crafted for the hands of Mankind. That's why I have to pass it on to you." England looked up at Portugal briefly. "You will... take it, won't you?"

Portugal smirked.

"Why should I?" he asked in a low voice, nearly growling. "Why do I need to?" He leaned in close, his lips brushing against England's ear as he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. "_What have you done, England?_"

"I asked you not to question it!" England said sharply, jerking away from him. "Now are you going to take the bleeding thing off my hands or am I to lower myself to the humiliation of asking France?"

Portugal leaned back with a musical laugh.

"Very well, I will lift this burden off your shoulders, if that's what you want," he sighed, reaching into the case and taking the gift; only a glint of gold flashed beneath the old, bedraggled Union Jack it was swathed in as he lifted it out. "He'll be angry if he knows you wrapped it in this."

"He doesn't even know it _exists_," England said in a low voice. "And I am trusting you to keep it that way."

"Well," Portugal reasoned, "I'm certain that you would rather I didn't use it anyway."

"Except for in one single instance." England looked at Portugal pointedly, lowering his voice. "The bomb. If he ever talks about the bomb, use it. Shut him down."

Portugal blinked, uncomprehending.

"The... _bomb_?" he repeated uneasily.

"That is all the knowledge you require," England said frostily, slamming the case shut again and beginning to rise. "I am hopeful that now... now it will never come to that but if it does regardless... _Only_ if he says that he's going to use the bomb, alright? I trust you, Portugal."

"W-wait!" Portugal caught at England's arm as he stood, tugging at him. "Now I sincerely hope that you're not _running away_ from all this—"

England snorted, trying to pull his arm back.

"I should think you know me better than that," he bit out.

"I don't know," Portugal replied lightly, his eyes nonetheless as hard as flint. "You've always been a bit odd when it comes to that brat."

"_That brat_ is Europe's hope," England said testily. "That is what he was created as and that is what he will become. It is buried too deeply within us, the _need_ to tear each other apart with wars and invasions, but he and Canada were made to be different – they are above all that mire. Everything we wanted and yet could not have was poured into them back then – and _that_..." He gestured to the weapon in Portugal's hand. "...The bow to his strings. Alas, it was made by us and has no place buried within human history – and so I may not take it to my grave."

Portugal's hand moved up England's arm to the crook of his elbow.

"What right have you to talk about your grave?" he hissed, pressing his thumb hard against the vein, buried beneath shirt and uniform jacket. "I never took you for a coward, you know – but if you can't even bear to put the final stroke to your masterpiece yourself, instead leaving it to _me_—"

"Ah, no, it's quite the opposite, I assure you," England said in a low voice, ignoring the breath of pain. "I will still be the one to save him – but _that_..." He nodded again at the long, thin object gleaming beneath the ragged red, white and blue (their shared colors). "That is no longer the instrument with which I will do it."

Portugal simply grinned, letting go of his elbow and instead taking his hand.

"Inglaterra," he purred, accentuating his own name for his friend, rolling it richly off his tongue as he switched deliberately to English, "I do believe that you're a little bit mad." He lifted and kissed his hand. "Of course, that is what I have always liked best about you."

England smirked, reclaiming his hand.

"Syphilis will do that to you," he said fondly as he started to walk away.

"Is that your way of saying that you won't sleep with me?"

"Not tonight, you arrogant prick."

"Nor any other night." Portugal leaned back with a deep sigh, looking up at the ceiling of the tavern. "Your loyalty sickens me. You're barely European – never have been."

"The bomb." England waved over his shoulder at him as he sauntered away. "Don't forget now."

He heard Portugal sighing deeply in Portuguese about frigidity and not even getting a kiss for his trouble as he went to the bar to hunt down America, finding him at the end of it with another glass of bourbon, barely touched, more preoccupied with stacking square drink coasters into a pyramid.

This was the first time in a very long time he had looked at him without knowing that he still had the power to change him.

It was a strange feeling; not sad, not terrifying, just sort of a bit... odd. A novel sense of trust that he could let America grow on his own.

He moved behind America without him noticing, so invested was he in building his pyramid, and ran a hand up his back.

"Shall we go?" he asked, leaning in close to his ear.

America paused in putting two coasters carefully into balance against each other, his azure eyes sliding towards England. He was scowling.

"Oh, are you done flirting with your boyfriend?" he replied moodily, turning his interrogation lights onto England. "Bet he had a field day with you the moment I left."

"Do you really think so little of me?" England asked patiently, patting America's back. "I admit he was being a bit spiteful but I am done with him now. Come on, let's go. Finish your drink."

"You should have told me," America hissed, ignoring England's beckon. "Honestly, I don't care _what _Portugal thinks of me but I still felt like an idiot sitting there believing that the ignorance went both ways."

"No-one ever said Portugal couldn't speak English – you came up with that all on your own," England retorted calmly.

"_You should have told me_."

America's eyes flared like the torches of a miniature lynch mob and England knew then that there was no possible way to dissuade him from the unreasonable idea that he had been somehow wronged. He sighed, letting the blame roll onto him as he tossed out an appeasement to make up for it.

"Yes, perhaps I should have. Here, let me take care of the tab."

"Already did." Abandoning his still nearly-full drink at the bar, America knocked his pyramid flat and got up, pulling on his bomber jacket. "Right, fine, yeah, let's go."

He pushed past England and stalked out of the tavern ahead of him; England followed a slower pace, pausing on the steps leading up to the door as it swung shut behind him. It was a clear, cool evening, the sun setting to cast marbled purples and blues and dark pinks over the horizon, the odd flash of sun-split orange glistening like the inner flesh of a tangerine amongst it all, darkening London's lovely old architecture against the perfectly-primed canvas of it. America had paused out on the empty cobbled street, waiting for him whilst pretending not to, his hands jammed moodily into the pockets of his uniform trousers as he looked up at the sky himself. England studied long and hard the creases of soft, supple leather across the blank back of his Royal Air Force flight jacket. It looked strangely, suddenly, plain.

"America," he said, stepping up onto the pavement himself.

America looked at him; his hair was the color of ripe corn under that light, the frames of his glasses gleaming and his freckles noticeable beneath the metal on his cheeks and over his nose.

"What?" he asked in a low, childish voice.

"I want to go somewhere," England said, holding out his hand. "Please come with me."

America hesitated, looking at his outstretched hand as though suddenly wary of him. It was the same look as he had given him back then, when he had first laid eyes on him, this strange young man from overseas in his fancy clothes impractical for the wild plains of the New World – and it was the same outstretched hand.

The same inherent trust and the same blind, bred-in love.

America didn't say a word but he reached out and put his hand in his and finally cracked a small smile.

* * *

The edge of Russia's coat trailed in the snow. Prussia watched the wispy tangled track it made as the taller man strode ahead, his steps light and confident and easy in his own environment.

Prussia himself trudged behind him, his hands shoved into the pockets of his thick grey trench coat, cursing away to himself about how fucking freezing it was out here as the wind howled at his back, finding every chink and weakness in his clothing until the cold became focused pressure points across his body. No wonder West had sent his apparent "lackeys" out into the elements for this job—

"You are keeping up with me, yes?" Russia asked pleasantly over his shoulder. "Should I slow down?"

"Perhaps a little bit," Prussia grumbled, quickening his pace for a few steps to catch up with his companion. "I can handle the cold but this is freaking _ridiculous_. I'm freezing my balls off – but I guess you're used to this, huh?"

Russia smiled serenely, tilting his head. He had lovely eyes but there was a terrible cruelty in them even so, one that Prussia never failed to notice when their gazes met. Prussia wasn't exactly Mr. Golden Boy himself, certainly, but there was something... different about Russia. Something odd. Something interesting.

"Would you like to borrow my scarf?" Russia offered as Prussia shivered violently.

(Something strangely kind, as well.)

"Huh?" Prussia scoffed and shook his head. "Nah, you keep it. You'd look fuckin' weird without it."

"Very well." Russia began to hum some sweet, pretty little tune as they walked side by side through the snow.

"You're in a good mood, huh?" Prussia noted through gritted teeth. It was almost annoying how cheerful Russia was. _Nobody_ should be allowed to be cheerful in weather like this.

"Yes." Russia nodded. "I think this is fun. Don't you agree?"

"Sure, if you consider freezing your balls off fun," Prussia bit out.

"You will not be cold for much longer," Russia replied absently. "The blood will be warm, I am sure."

* * *

"Those are _my_ cigarettes."

Tipping his head right back, the base of his skull pressing against the lion's smooth, cold flank, America blinked up at England, who was leaning over him with ease from his loftier position.

"Yeah?" America smiled pleasantly at him. "Well, finders keepers, losers weepers. I got 'em from you fair and square."

"You didn't _find_ them if you just knowingly stole them from my stash. Besides, you have two. Give me one."

"Tch." Ticked as he was by the demand, America didn't really feel that he could refuse given that he _had_ stolen them from England and he wasn't exactly going to smoke them both right at this exact moment. "You have pretty bad manners for a _gentleman_ sometimes," he mocked, handing one upwards.

"My status as a gentleman is entirely self-styled," England replied easily, "meaning that I can pick and choose the qualities which I desire to embody. Besides, I don't want to hear criticism about my manners from a little thief such as yourself."

America grinned as he fished out his Zippo lighter, his own cigarette already held loosely between his teeth.

"Guess I can't argue with that," he admitted merrily.

He twisted in his seat on the sandstone plinth of the huge lion and stretched up towards England to light his cigarette for him; England, sprawled happily over the lion's bronze back, leaned down again so that America could cup a hand around the flame. It flared brightly like a little lighthouse against America's ocean eyes, making England's gold hair glow briefly as he sucked in the heat before he pulled back with a satisfied sigh releasing the first puff of smoke into the evening air. America lit his own cigarette and settled back against the lion again to enjoy it – one of the four hulking metal beasts guarding the cardinal directions on Nelson's Column. Trafalgar Square was utterly deserted, dusk setting in fast and the moon rising pale and chalky in the smoke-colored sky; both fountains had been turned off for the night, water rippling and lapping at their edges beneath the faintest touch of a breeze and the surrounding buildings, including the National Gallery and Canada House, were fast becoming dark silhouettes in the endless wave of London's skyline. It was so quiet, the bustling streets and roads of England's capital (his _heart_) asleep for the evening in this area – a few streets over, perhaps, ladies and gentlemen in glimmering jewels and silk neckties would be congregating outside the West End theatres to see the latest talked-about play or musical, but here it was just them and the lions and Admiral Horatio Nelson over one hundred and fifty feet above.

"I can see why you wouldn't want Germany stomping in here and claiming all this," America said after a moment. "This has always been one of my favorite bits of London." He smirked. "Even if Canada does get his own house here while _my_ embassy is all the way over in freaking Grosvenor Square."

"Now don't be greedy – there's a statue of George Washington just over there next to the National Gallery. I don't see any of _Canada's_ bosses around here, do you?"

"True." America shrugged easily. "And I guess this is still better than that huge bragging phallic symbol of yours in Westminster."

England snorted incredulously, a shotgun pattern of smoke floating up from his nose.

"This is where I remind you of the Washington Monument, is it not?" He smirked. "Didn't that used to be the tallest structure in the world – ah, that is, until France's Eiffel Tower topped it?"

"Shut up," America shot back, laughing nonetheless. "Like Big Ben could ever compare to _either_."

"Technically speaking, Big Ben is a nickname for the main bell. The clock tower – the "huge bragging phallic symbol" which you referred to – is simply the Westminster clock tower. And its size is proportional to the building it is attached to; if it were any larger it would just look out of place."

"Aw, shucks, England, thanks for the history lesson."

"That wasn't a history lesson," England sighed, shifting on the lion's curved back to get more comfortable. "I was merely contradicting you, love."

"Mm. You always do a great job of that."

"It would help if you weren't wrong all the time."

America glanced up at him again.

"Are you enjoying it up there on your lion-shaped pedestal?" he asked good-naturedly.

"Ah, can you tell?" England pressed his cheek to the lion's mane and smiled. "I think I might just stay up here forever."

"Right – because those lions were put there just for _you_ to climb on."

"They're _my_ lions." England inhaled on his cigarette again and drew a little pattern beneath the lion's curved ear with his fingertip. "Still, I'm willing to share. All of this, I mean. Everything I have, I don't mind sharing it with you, America, as long as you promise to take good care of it." He leaned down again and kissed America right on his parting. "You're as good as my heir."

"I think you've given me all I can take for now without bursting or something," America replied, rubbing absently at his arm. "But thanks. I'll definitely hold you to that when I feel like adding another state to my collection. I've never been quite satisfied with forty-eight, makes the flag look too static with all my stars looking like ducks in a row. I reckon fifty is better; a nice round number that would make my stars more dynamic to boot." He turned and looked up at England again with a smile. "What do you think of that, huh? You want to be one of my states, England?"

"There's that insufferable arrogance again; no, America, I don't think so," England replied with a smirk.

"Why not? You'll be my favorite and I won't even rename anything, I promise."

"Even so, at the risk of you installing a restaurant selling hamburgers right here in Trafalgar Square, I am still going to have to pass up your oh-so-temping offer."

"Eh, it's gonna happen one day anyway. They'll be all over the world with... with _streets_ named after them and stuff! Hamburgers are just _that_ great."

"...I envy your odd little world, America."

"Hey, you be can part of it!" America chirped around his cigarette. "There's a star just for you waiting to be sewn onto my flag!"

"Ugh, don't go down that sodding imperialism route. I assure you that it doesn't pay in the end. This war is proof enough of that – as was the last one."

"But you like a good war, England," America said patiently, reaching back to tap at the lion with his leather-gloved knuckles, listening to the dull ring of heavy metal. "You and your crazy old lion here, remember?"

England sighed above him.

"I like this better," he replied quietly. "Just this. You and me sitting here with no-one else about, nothing to distract us or worry us—"

"Like your "map"."

"Exactly."

America gave a half-irritable snort, smoke burning his nose as it clouded from his nostrils.

"Listen to you sweet-talkin' me," he drawled. "I should still be pretty darn mad at you for that thing back there with Portugal."

"Nothing happened with Portugal. You're just being jealous."

"You've slept with him though, haven't you?"

"Centuries ago, yes. Long before you, I promise. He was my first." England reached down and played with America's hair, holding on to the little wild tuft that forever stood aloof when America tried to pull away in annoyance. "It doesn't matter. I love you, America – I've never loved anyone the way I love you. I simply could _never_ love Portugal the way I love you."

America didn't answer him, didn't look at him.

"Well, you can't expect me to regret it," England went on in a low voice, "because how was I to have known back then that I would have you? Perhaps if I _had_ known... I would have waited—"

"Until 1917 in that fucking tank?" America gave a cool, disbelieving little laugh. "You'd have missed out on all the drunken medieval revelries."

"In hindsight, that would not bother me now," England said softly, patiently. "But that is my point exactly. You can only ever know these things in hindsight. History cannot run backwards for your sake or for anyone else's."

"Heh." America smiled a little bit. "I guess you're right. You'd just run about changing all the stuff you didn't like if you could, anyway."

"Would you change _that_?"

"You mean would I kick Portugal down a flight of stairs before he got his grubby meathooks on you? Hell yeah I would."

"France, too."

America gave a disgusted groan.

"Do I want to hear this?"

"Well..." England shrugged. "That's what history is, I'm afraid. One long list of unpleasant facts."

"Yeah, some more unpleasant than others."

"And some less so."

"Uh huh?" America turned towards him again, tapping his cigarette over the edge of the plinth. "And what would those be?"

"Oh, we've had an alright time of it, haven't we?" England leaned down towards him again, as close as he could without sliding off his perch between the lion's wide shoulders. "We've had our moments, you and I."

"Yeah, I guess my childhood wasn't so bad," America said, grinning. "You weren't even there half the time. I ran riot. I even let the chickens come into the house."

"I know _that_," England said, rolling his eyes. "I mean this. Us. Since 1917."

"Aside from the war, Spanish Flu, Prohibition, strikes, Depression, Dust Bowl and what looks pretty much like _another_ war?"

"Half of those things weren't my problem but yes, aside from all that."

America smirked.

"Yeah, we've had an alright time of it," he replied. "You more so."

"Only just, I assure you. But you're missing the point. I mean _us_. Together."

"Right, right." America pushed up towards him. "You're sweet-talking me again. I know you just want a kiss."

"So kiss me, idiot."

"Aye aye, sir."

He had to stretch a bit and hold his balance by putting a hand on the lion; the position was sort of awkward, really, but England seemed happy enough with the effort, pressing in again and again for a few smaller smooches before pulling back completely with a smoky smile.

"Hey," America said conversationally, bringing one leg up onto the plinth so that he could twist more comfortably and lean his chest against the lion's cool metal ribs, looking up at England with his chin resting his arms. "So none of my bosses have ever known that you and I... you know. Do it. Or that we're lovers, even. 'Cause, you know, they'd totally kill me. Everyone is still pretty much into that Isolationist thing over at mine."

"That's fair." England prodded at America's shoulder with the heel of his boot. "Big Bad Britain – you don't want to be messing around with me and my Empire. Even your greatest have always regarded that to be something of a dirty word."

"Well, some of 'em have kind of liked you, dirty-word-Empire and all, but probably not enough to be cool with me being that close with you. It's not like we have a proper military alliance or anything, really. At least not yet."

"We have more than that now."

"Right, our 'Special Relationship' thing with the blood transfusion and all that jazz." America nodded. "Well, it's my body and I can have whoever's blood and other bodily fluids I want inside it – but even so, I think I might still keep it to myself."

"That's wise. I like your boss but I don't know how kindly he would take it nonetheless."

"Who, Frankie D?" America puffed thoughtfully at what was left of his cigarette. "You know, funny story about him – he has _no idea_ that I'm over here."

"Ah?" England arched an eyebrow. "Is that so, my boy? I like very much that you neglected to furnish me, and your _superiors_, with that information."

"Oh dear, breaking out the huge vocabulary," America muttered. "I've made you mad."

"Not as mad as "Frankie D" is no doubt going to be," England replied coolly. "Some advice: Don't call him that when you're groveling for forgiveness on the floor of the Oval Office."

America gave a dismissive snort and hoisted himself up onto the lion's back, sitting on it with his feet resting on the plinth. He reached out and slipped an arm about England's waist, pulling him towards himself so that they were sat next to each other and pressed close.

"What was I _supposed_ to do?" he asked in a low voice. "Everything gets all tied up with rules and... and agreements and paperwork and stuff; you know what my government is like, it's not really Roosevelt himself, it's the Senate, they don't want me involved with foreign wars, God knows they stamped Wilson into the ground over that League of Nations thing..." He sighed and rested his cheek on the crown of England's head. "You might get a Lend-Lease program or something out of 'em, maybe – I mean, you probably can't afford another huge war all by yourself this time, not after the hole the first one burned in your pocket, but... I don't know, I just get the feeling they're not exactly gonna let me sling a couple bandoliers over my shoulder and rally the troops to come help you out. They're just so preoccupied in maintaining that it's not our fault, we shouldn't get involved and sure, yeah, Washington was into that whole "Don't get involved in foreign wars" thing but times have changed since 1796 and I just..." He gave another frustrated sigh and England nuzzled against his neck with a little sound of understanding. "Ugh, last time I just sat on the sidelines until it was almost too late. You looked like death by the time I got to you and I just... I can't do that again. I can't watch you get the hell beaten out of you from the bleachers."

"So you ran away?" England translated shortly.

"Does this count as running away?" America asked sincerely.

England shrugged.

"I suppose it's relative," he muttered. He took America's hand and squeezed it in his. "Well, thank you, America. I'm going to need your help, I assure you."

"I know. I'm a hero, remember? Got the jacket to prove it and everything." America finally reached into his pocket and pulled out his garrison cap, which he'd left shoved in there since yesterday. He put it on, angling it as best he could without a mirror. "Got the hat, too!"

"And the damsel in distress, it would seem," England sighed, reached up and adjusting his hat the tiniest of degrees. "Nothing new there."

"Damsel?" America nudged him. "I reckoned you were my steed."

England shot him a scowl.

"And why would I be your _steed_?" he asked testily.

"Because I ride you."

England didn't laugh. He didn't get annoyed. Oddly enough, he looked somewhat impressed.

"I take my earlier statement back," he said at length, finishing his cigarette. "The wit is new."

"You like it?"

"It might take some getting used to."

America snorted, pretty sure he should be offended by that.

"And the war won't?"

"Ah, not so much. You know me – always at war if I can help it."

"This one might be different."

"Yes, I know that. They were supposed to be testing the new air raid sirens tonight, actually, in anticipation of that fact."

"Huh." America tipped his head back and looked up the clear, quiet sky. "I didn't hear nothin'."

"Of course not. That's because they didn't even though they were supposed to." England shook his head. "Well, nothing new there either, I suppose. What I laughably refer to as my government couldn't organize a piss-up in a brewery. Churchill's been saying there would be another war for years and no-one listened to him – and then of course Chamberlain went and signed the Munich Agreement with that bloody Nazi nutjob boss of Germany's, giving away Czechoslovakia and putting _my_ name to the deal..." He sighed heavily. "That why it's easier for _us_ to just put on a uniform, load up a gun and go and deal with the thing ourselves. Leave politics out of it. Humans love to make everything so complicated and there's really no need for it."

"Lord, you can say _that_ again," America agreed in a low voice. "_My_ government is the definition of a bunged-up bureaucracy, pretty much a huge tangled cat's cradle of checks and balances, legislation and amendments and God knows what else. Good thing Roosevelt's pretty damned good at cat's cradle but he's still been wrestling with it since 1933. The New Deal couldn't solve everything, after all."

"We're much simpler creatures than humans, aren't we?" England sighed. "I rather think we only have a few basic instincts: Invade, conquer, steal, make alliances, declare war and attempt to preserve our own history. We don't feel the need to complicate all those things by drawing up... _paperwork_ for them. I tell you, I _miss_ the days when the Vikings and the Saxons simply beat each over the head with an axe and nicked each other's gold reliquaries."

"And when you didn't need concrete paperwork proof of a military alliance for no-one to bat an eyelid about you screwing your former colony."

"Exactly." England frowned. "Not that _colonies_ aren't another source of a lot of fucking paperwork, too..." He made an odd little whistling sound, almost like the trill of a bird. "You know what? I could go for another drink. Shall we find another pub? There's bound to be one open around here somewhere."

"I knew you'd recall that you're a borderline alcoholic at some point," America replied cheerfully. "Sure thing, I guess we'd just be sitting in your house waiting for Germany to not get the hell out of Poland's house so we can declare war on him anyway." America stood up and hopped down off the plinth, landing heavily after more of a drop than he'd anticipated. He bounced on the balls of his aching feet, looking up at England as he rose from the lion's back. "Ouch, didn't think it was that high," he muttered, outstretching his arms. "Well, c'mon then, doll. Jump and I'll catch you."

England smirked down at him, putting a hand on the lion's head.

"Are you being metaphorical again, America?" he asked sweetly, his other hand resting on his hip, his fingertips brushing the edge of the holstered Browning Hi-Power on his belt.

"No," America said. He fanned his fingers. "Well, maybe a little – but not as much as _you_ right now, standing way up there with your crazy old English lion at your back, both of you with teeth and claws bared, ready for a fight."

England's expression sobered a little as he craned his neck to look up at Admiral Nelson atop his high, elaborate pillar.

"I'm expecting one," he said.

—

Walking home across Westminster Bridge, their hands clasped tightly together as a physical statement of their alliance (both in military uniforms already, after all), Big Ben began to chime midnight overhead. On the empty bridge, the black water ebbing silently at the bank beneath, America stopped and tugged England firmly towards him, pulling him into a deep kiss and wrapping his strong arms about his slender back. England looped his own arms around America's neck – and this time he didn't have a weapon in his hand to press heavily on America's shoulder as they entwined themselves with each other as though no longer content to exist as two separate beings.

America pulled back again breathlessly after the twelfth strike of the bell had flitted away on the still night air and gave a strained smile.

"It's the third of September," he said quietly. "I think we're officially at war, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland."

England pressed his forehead against America's and nodded, closing his eyes.

"I think so too, United States of America," he muttered in reply.

* * *

A trip to London just isn't a trip to London without going to Trafalgar Square to hang off one of those lions. In the summer it's always _heaving_ with tourists just sitting all over everything. The lions are pretty big, though – they're hard to get up on unless you have someone to give you a boost or you're really tall. Alfred probably had to lift Arthur on. XD

Some "translation" notes:

**England's Portuguese:** He says 'Good day', 'thank you very much' and 'see you later'. It was taken from online phrasebooks and not done on a translator so I trust it's probably correct.

**Speaking of Portugal:** **a.)** The "highly-distracting" roosters on his waistcoat are Galo de Barcelos – or, in English, Barcelos Roosters. These seizure-inducing little critters are a national symbol of Portugal and thus on all souvenirs purchased from the country. _All souvenirs. _**b.)** Don't know what Alfred is jealous about, really. There is an Anglo-American base in Portugal, which is pretty much the _Hetalia_ equivalent of them doing it in Portugal's bed. XD

(Portugal would probably just watch and then award marks out of ten, though.)

**On the "playwright" paragraph:**_ Romeo and Juliet tempted fate with forbidden love beneath the window of Dr Faustus, who hungered for knowledge the way Macbeth hungered for power and murdered for the crown like Claudius, taking what was not his birthright just as Volpone did. _It references:**Romeo and Juliet** from _Romeo and Juliet_ by William Shakespeare_; _**Dr Faustus** from _Dr Faustus_ by Christopher Marlowe_; _**Macbeth** from _Macbeth_ by William Shakespeare_; _**Claudius** from _Hamlet _by William Shakespeare_; _**Volpone** from _Volpone_ by Ben Jonson_. _

I know three of those were really obvious but I do hate to set people homework nonetheless. Shakespeare, Marlowe and Jonson were all contemporaries in Elizabethan Britain (and real-life-wise, Shakespeare was by far the most boring. Jonson once killed someone in a pub brawl and Marlowe was a British spy, lolololol).

**Speaking of Shakespeare:** England's line "That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet" is, of course, a direct quotation from _Romeo and Juliet. _The line is spoken by Juliet in the play.

**Speaking of English Literature:** _The Dying Swan_, which has become a noun-phrase which was worked its way into British English as a simile for someone acting overdramatically towards something that really isn't a big deal (like England having to get out of his seat to get a pen), comes from two things: A short Russian ballet and a poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Tennyson, while we're at it, served the Poet Laureate to Queen Victoria and was particularly famous for his long poems _The Lady of Shalott_, _Ulysses_ and _In Memoriam_ – this latter one was written on the death of his best friend, a man named Arthur Hallam. I don't think Himaruya had that in mind when he named them, though. XD

**LASTLY**,if you've read this much of this fic, I assume you like USUK. In which case you need to go to my profile to get the USUK gifts that I bear to you all. There are explanations as to exactly what it all is there but let's just say that if you have not yet heard America and England fucking, your life is missing something. Something which you can get from my profile. Just a heads up. XD

Thanks for reading this monster. God only knows how long it'll take us to drag the bloody carcass of the next mammoth over the The Pit's threshold.

RobinRocks and Narroch

xXx


	5. Wish Me Luck As You Wave Me Goodbye

**Anyone who got an alert for this chapter initially: **This is basically the same chapter. In fact, it _is_ the same chapter as chapter 5, just with a few additions/edits, because admittedly we weren't quite utterly and perfectly satisfied with the version posted up two weeks ago. If you DID manage to find and read this chapter the first time, there isn't a pressing need to reread it. Plot is the same, ending is the same, the wording is just a bit different in a few places towards the end. You might not even notice. With that said, that's actually _not_ the reason for the entire reposting of this chapter. That is entirely down to the fact that you may in fact not even be _aware_ that this was posted two weeks ago due to FFNet having problems with its alert system. Hopefully this problem has been resolved so that our _entire_ readership for this fic is made aware that it has been updated. =)

Apologies for the spam if you already received an alert for this chapter and read it/reviewed it/ignored it/whatever!

Thank you to: **suzako, DetectiveLinky, Synonymous Brian, watchulla, dryeyes, CinnaTheConspirator, octavaluna-801, Affera, DesktopNeko, Aria DC al Fine, hoshiko2kokoro, WhiteCrow10, raevyn93, HeartGoesKaboom, fictionhime, OrangePlum, jenn955, Just Call Me Zyzix, Nickel Xenon, MaryLittle, Rina B, IthoughtIsawyoutry** and **lucimonk**; and to those who already reviewed the initial run of this chapter: **Bulmaaa, Just Call Me Zyzix, I Ran Over The Taco Bell Dog, DesktopNeko, TwistedRoses132, pandawolf, IthoughtIsawyoutry, moyashi-neechan** (and also both **Hakuku** and **AutumnDynasty**, because I know you both read it!). None of you guys have to review again, obviously!

Two things about this chapter:

**The title: **It's a line from'Wish Me Luck' by Gracie Fields, who sang it in the film _Shipyard Sally_. Fields, like Vera Lynn, became an icon of the Allied war/homefront during WWII, with this song in particular – with its lyrics about being hopeful while a loved one has gone away – becoming synonymous with the British war effort. 'Wish Me Luck' was released, ironically, in 1939 – the year the war began and this fic is set. =)

**The original release date: **…Which was 23rd April. It was picked specifically because 23rd April is St George's Day (somewhat-acknowledged in this fandom as England's birthday). St George is the patron saint of England – with a name for killing dragons, much to the displeasure of Wales' St David! But more on St George later! Incidentally, as a fun-but-less-important fact, today is also Shakespeare's birthday! …And deathday. Oh, Shakey. What a spoilsport, dying at your own birthday party. "It's my party and I'll die if I wanna…"

Well, enjoy today's update! Germany and Italy are back (accompanied by two other fan-favourites), there's plenty of Prussia and America sees some action (no, not that kind of action, you perverts)!

[Thanks to AutumnDynasty, who partially betaed this chapter!]

Pangaea

Wish Me Luck As You Wave Me Goodbye

"England."

America clutched tighter around England's palm as he stopped dead in the private street he knew well, feeling the older man stop next to him with rather the same shocked abruptness.

"Um," America said, bewildered.

"Quite," England replied faintly.

They both looked a while longer.

"So," America went on weakly, finally turning properly towards his companion. "Your house is sinking."

The statement dropped uselessly like a stone into the silence, rippling the edges of the scene with a cringing clumsiness that even America regretted the moment it tumbled from his mouth. However, the utterance didn't seem to reach England. To be perfectly honest, America had been expecting a short, terse, rude reply; something along the lines of "I can see that, you idiot" or "Thank you so _very_ much for pointing out the obvious, America". But he got nothing. Nothing at all. England was just staring mutely at the house, white in the face, holding America's hand very tightly.

Sinking. The hard-packed ground, the old hand-hewn cobbles – Victorian, Georgian, older still – were all sliding and slanting inwards, barely tremoring, the lines of orderly rosebushes uprooting with the pull as the ancient stones heaved the house helplessly down with them; but it wasn't even _just_ sinking. The entire thing, the whole quasi-Gothic three-story building, was collapsing into itself, folding inwards like a pyramid of cards, leaving a gaping negative space in its wake – but with a slowness, a viscosity, of melting tar, of cooling magma, without the noise and dust and destruction which usually accompanied the falling-down of a house. It was instead engineered with a preciseness and a silence that was more dreadful still, an eerie and deliberate compression – a theft – of all a man's worldly possessions. And it _was_ a theft, because the house wasn't doing it on its own, a whim, a change of pace; between the folds and breaking layers of brick and wood and stone came flashes and slithers of hard thick green, the haul of roots and the brush of dense, roiling foliage. The house was being pulled, anchored, _dragged_ into its grave by some autonomous hand of nature, reclaiming the space in a matter of minutes rather than centuries.

As they stood there silent and still but for the trembling of England's fist within his own, America could feel the slightest breeze against his back, the air itself flowing around them dry and fine as desert sand, a strange sensation for a normally damp maritime island. It seemed as if the very atmosphere and all its moisture was being wicked away by the yawning void left behind by the slowly tamped house.

"Sorry," America amended, after staring a moment longer at the struggling structure doing a rather dramatic impression of the word 'concave'. "I meant to say that a giant tree with a mind of its own is pulling your house into the ground."

"Yes," England agreed absently.

America frowned at the lackluster response, purposefully swinging his arm and their clasped hands to engage England.

"You're not responding to this the way I was expecting," America said pointedly.

"Sorry." Again, softly, almost absent-mindedly.

"England!" America turned fully and stepped in front of him to block his view of the buckling house. He seized his shoulders and shook him. "Your house. Is. _Sinking_! Panic and freak out! Yell! Curse! Cry! Get drunk! Do _something_!"

"What do you want me to do?" England sighed at him, taking America's wrists and delicately removing his hands as if picking lint from his jacket. "What can be done?"

America looked at him in utter despair. His mouth hung open as if to argue against the defeatist attitude but a loud crack, akin to a gunshot in the otherwise silent milieu, caused them both to jump and America whipped his head back around to the house. The spine of the gabled roof had finally buckled under the pressure, giving the entire house a sickly swayback. He glanced side-long at England, hoping it had been enough to shock some sort of reaction from him, but his visage was the same: pale, wide-eyed, but otherwise devoid of emotion.

"Okay," he breathed. He pressed a hand to England's forehead. "You know what? You're in shock or something. This is _not_ a normal reaction to coming home and finding your entire house _being eaten by a tree_ – and especially not from _you_. You shout at me if I don't put your cigarette lighter back in the _exact same_ corner of the drawer I took it from. I mean, gee whiz, you're acting like you were _expecting_ this or something…"

England pulled away from him, side-stepping America to stare at the floundering house.

"It's so soon," he said quietly, the stench of guilt becoming apparent on his voice. "I didn't… I thought I'd have more time than this, at least time enough to…"

America grabbed him again, growing impatient.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded.

"It's…" England sighed at him. "Oh, how can I explain it to you? You won't understand. Or, rather, you won't want to."

America blinked over the top of his glasses at him as the guilt and subdued reaction suddenly sidled against each other and clicked into place with sickening recognition.

"…You did this?" He looked at the house himself – at the monstrous, hirsute root crushing a welt into the roof, making the tiles skitter and slide and spin off the edges as the whole thing capsized beneath the slow wave of nature. "Why… why would you—?"

"It's something that needs to be done," came England's clipped and cryptic reply.

America ignored the obvious deflection and burrowed his fingers into England's shoulder as he dug into the unsatisfactory answer.

"What, destroy your house?" he exclaimed incredulously. "What is this, some crazy military maneuver so Germany can't pinpoint you? What the hell are we supposed to do _now_, England? Sleep on France's floor?"

"America, don't overreact—"

"I am not _over_reacting! I'm just reacting, unlike you!" America snapped. "Are you stupid? What good is this going to do, huh?"

Again, England's reply was a sullen yet completely guarded stare that conveyed nothing.

He was on the verge of shaking England again, just to try and get a proper reaction out of him, when movement out of the corner of his eye stilled him, alerted him. He turned, still holding England's arm with one hand, to find themselves being approached slowly and deliberately by two powerful figures he recognized from earlier that afternoon as well as from every fairytale England had spun for him as a child. Apparently as reality swallowed England's home whole, it was left open long enough for something to come out, for dreams to don weight and color – one purest moonlight-white and the other a tawny-brass, carved from wood and plated in gold no longer but with muscles and tendons flowing potently beneath skin, beneath fur and hair and hide and a singular horn.

The two creatures, unreal in their size, the swirling spike, the serene sentience of their eyes, paced closer.

"Lion." He backed away, pulling England with him. "Holy shit. _Lion_."

"You're afraid of the lion?" England sounded grimly amused despite everything. "The unicorn is the one you should watch out for."

"Nuh-_uh_. Teeth. Claws. Tendency to eat people." America still pulled against England's arm, trying to get him to move without actually running away. England held him back.

"Her horn could run right through you. She's faster, too."

England pulled away and went to them; gentle, fearless, welcoming, his arms open in familiarity. Both beasts nudged and nuzzled at him, the lion against his shoulder and the crook of his neck, the unicorn dipped her powerful neck against his cheek, for she stood three full hands taller than him. America knew the nature of the rapport, for bald eagles – wild ones, ones that were not his own – would circle him on high when he was out in his wilderness, and sometimes they even went so far as to land on his shoulder or arm without being bidden. They knew. It was a bond between symbols that didn't need words or reason. It simply existed because they could know him instinctively for what he was even when his citizens could not.

These, however, were England's own. His lion and his unicorn; his symbols, his guardians. America had never seen them before, had never seen him summon them nor they come to him like this. For all he mocked England's little bleating eccentricities about fairies and unicorns, he could see these creatures as clear as day and believed in their presence, even her with her helix horn.

Why were they here?

"England—" America began desperately, stepping towards the group with intent to tear apart the fond reunion in the name of a reality check.

The lion growled at him from over England's shoulder, lips flaring back to give glint to the teeth he hadn't exactly forgotten about; the unicorn pawed the ground with a cloven hoof and lowered her head, aligning her horn with his throat.

"Steady, steady," England crooned at them, his hands in thick manes and rubbing behind ears. "We'll have none of that. You remember America. He too was yours to protect once – and at any rate, I shan't have you hurting him. He's all I have."

They grew calm again but America didn't dare approach, looking briefly up at the house. Its decent was slowing, creaking and struggling as the crushed mass of it began to clog and compact at sinking-street-level. He was starting to wonder if this wasn't all simply some very strange dream he was suddenly having, the disappearing house, the mythical creatures that had come slinking out of the wreckage to greet their master—

"America." England turned to him, flanked either side by his lion and his unicorn. Their imposing presence made him look smaller than usual – but stronger, also. "I have to go somewhere. That's what this is." He nodded towards the house. "My gateway."

America frowned at him.

"…Go somewhere?" he repeated blankly. "Wh-where?"

"That doesn't matter." England wasn't smiling. "What _does_ matter is that you cannot come with me – so please don't follow me."

America's frown deepened. He didn't like the finality in England's voice, the way the 'please' sounded more like a tagged-on habit than an actual request.

"When are you coming back? 'Cause, uh, there's a war on that _you_ started, if you remember."

England didn't answer for a moment, averting his gaze; with an effort like iron pulling from a magnet, he withdrew himself from the animals and came back to America, taking his hands.

"I won't be," he said in a low voice. "History will not give me up once it has me. I won't be able to come back."

"You…" America shook his head at him. The words wouldn't go in. It wouldn't compute. He didn't understand. "You… you _can't_… just… I mean, it's…"

"I'm sorry," England said softly, squeezing America's hands.

"No, you _can't_…" America couldn't even articulate what he wanted to say, everything frothing and fizzing up at once, reason upon reason why England was being so completely ridiculous. "That doesn't make any sense, there's… there's a war, we need you, you can't just… _go_, like… like, whenever you want—"

"I don't have a choice in the matter," England interrupted quickly. "I have to go. There's nothing else for it. History has come for me. If I don't go now, the gateway will simply widen and widen until it has me. There is no escape from it, America. It's either go now without a fuss, with my head held high, or run and cower and allow it to take all of London, all of my land, Wales and Scotland and Northern Ireland, until it has swallowed everything to get me. Until there is nothing to hide behind."

"Why?" America cried, grabbing at his lapels. "Why do you have to go?"

"America, please." England wrestled him off. "This is difficult enough as it is—"

"It's a simple enough question!" America shrieked at him. "And reasonable too, given the circumstances!"

"…You're right – but it isn't something for you to know." England shook his head, lowered it. "I thought I'd have longer…"

"England, _you can't go_!" America exploded. "We _need_ you! How are we supposed to defeat Germany with one man down already?"

"I've already told you, I don't have a choice!" England snapped. "For god's sake, don't you think this is painful enough? I know I'm letting you all down and I'm _sorry_, I didn't mean for it to happen like this, I thought—"

"Yeah, you thought you'd have more time," America cut in coldly. "You've said that twice already."

"Don't be unkind," England said stiffly. "This is it, you know. Goodbye."

"No, it isn't," America insisted. "This is _nuts_, all of it. You're not going anywhere, England. I'm not gonna let you."

England sighed at him.

"This isn't something to be solved with brute strength and misguided heroics," he said. "If I don't go, I'll be taken."

"I'll protect you!" America snatched England's wrists, gazing pleadingly at him. "I won't let _anything_ hurt you or take you away, I promise."

England gave a watery smile.

"That's very brave of you," he said gently, "and kind and good, too, but there is nothing you can do. I have to go and you must not follow."

"…You… you're a _country_!" America cried, his desperation mounting. "Where is there for you to go? You're on maps, you're in atlases and history books, you're a nation with citizens and a language – you're England, you're Britain, you're the United Kingdom. You can't _leave_ – you can't just disappear and expect that everything will be amended to erase your existence!"

"That's exactly it." England squeezed America's hands. "That is why you mustn't follow me. You carry my history in your heart. When I'm gone, the world will still have its Britain within you. There will be no need to revise or erase anything as long as you hold what I gave to you." His fingertips dipped beneath America's shirt cuffs, tracing the thin skin at his wrists, his veins a steady pulsing kiss against them. "As long as my blood is in your body, I will not be forgotten, nor resigned to the fate of Rome."

The admission was a slow burn; realization smoldered for entire seconds before the full glaring heat rose to America's eyes.

"Is that why you did it?" America pulled his hands away fiercely, pressing a palm to one of his wrists. "Is that what this is, England?" He shook his head and gave a bitter little laugh. "Wow, you sure sold me on that, huh? Telling me it was a pact, a promise, a blood-alliance. Guess I'm pretty fuckin' naïve and stupid to have fallen for that load of symbolic crap—"

"This isn't about _selling_ you anything—"

"Except your history," America shot back, becoming angrier by the second. He could feel the shock and fury fusing into something black and unstoppable, an evil train that was going to drive England away from him even if he didn't actually have to leave. He clenched his fists until they shook, taking stock of the ramifications and settling on the safest one. "How _dare_ you treat me like this! I'm not your heir – and I'm not some convenient old pirate chest for you to cram full of all your treasures and then bury to keep them safe, _captain_. You already tried this once, remember? Trying to fashion me into some little well-dressed doll to sit quietly on your lap at parties and do you justice by being perfect in your image. You recall what came of _that_, surely?"

"That makes no difference!" England sighed disgustedly at him. "Oh, make of it what you will, then! What was I expecting? We've never been any good at goodbyes, have we?"

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand and turned away, starting towards the sinking house with clear intent to simply leave America standing in the street; his lion and his unicorn fell into step alongside him, one on either side, making him the precious emblem that they guarded.

"_England_! For God's sake, where do you think you're—?" Losing his patience altogether, America lunged forwards and seized England's wrist, wrenching him backwards and forcing him to face him. "You aren't leaving! Not this world, not this war, and you definitely aren't leaving _me_!"

America barely got the words out before they were drowned in a volcanic roar, so loud and so close he could feel his insides quiver from the reverberations. The lion pivoted in an instant and followed through with his war-cry, rearing up and batting America aside with a dinnerplate-sized paw, the battering weight slamming into his thigh and hip and knocking him squarely off balance; winded, he stumbled and toppled, slamming to the pavement with a force that nearly knocked the sense out of him. The lion was over him in an instant pinning him with his heavy front paws, the claws visibly extended. Massive and imposing, fixing him with a chillingly piercing stare only a truly successful predator could pull off, the lion's maw hung open, a low gurgling growl dripping past a battalion of dagger teeth on each breath. The air hit America's face, warm and raw, and he didn't dare move a muscle even though his head spun and morphed the single lion into three.

England looked down at him for a moment, rubbing at his wrist; the unicorn had her head on his shoulder, regarding America with her inscrutable equine eyes, a wise yet uninterested peripheral gaze beneath her downward-slanting lashes.

"I told you that you can't fight this," England said flatly, absently scratching the underside of her rounded jowl as he spoke. "Though that was uncalled for, I feel."

He gave a long stroke down the center of the lion's back and the beast obediently stepped off, sinking to his haunches and allowing America to sit up, though his piercing gold eyes still actively tracked the bobbing pulse of America's jugular.

"So what?" America said quietly, rubbing at the back of his head as he stared at the ground between his splayed legs. "You're just gonna run off? You're gonna walk away and leave me standing here?"

"Don't," England cut in, looking away as well. "I wish it didn't have to be like this."

"It _doesn't_!" America insisted, volume increasing, fists pummeling the ground to give emphasis. He knew it was the classic position of a childish tantrum on the ground but the situation was so unfair, so far out of his reach and over his head; there was nothing left for it but to fall into the old, useless mien.

(Though he had done it before, countless times, as a child; clinging to England and wailing at him not to leave. It hadn't worked then, either.)

"Yes, it does." England looked briefly at the shuddering house before stepping forward and extending his arm. "And I'm running out of time."

Wary of the creatures but a few paces away, America accepted England's hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, not letting go of his hand when he was standing.

England tugged. America tightened.

"America, don't." England's voice came out raw now, choked, close to breaking. "Please don't. This is hard enough as it is."

"I'm not gonna let you go anywhere." America pulled England against him, wrapping his arms tightly around his back.

"_America_—" England put his hands against America's chest in a weak bid to push him away.

America clung to him, folding himself around him, burying his face in his shoulder.

"I'm not gonna let you go," he said again in a low voice, bordering on threat. "Take me with you, at least, if there's no avoiding it."

"I can't," England replied quietly. "You need to stay here."

"Why? So I can _be_ you? So we're not all deprived of Shakespeare and Queen Victoria?"

"Yes," England sighed. "And also… so that you'll be safe."

"Leaving me alone in a war is not my idea of 'safe'!" America spat the word derisively, as if it were dirty. "And besides, I'm not a child! I don't need you to keep me safe—"

"If you're not a child then don't cling to me like one."

"You're being unfair. I'm doing this because _you_ are the one acting like a selfish brat." The lump rising in America's throat, even though he fiercely willed it down, ached as he swallowed. "Everything… everything was all fine fifteen minutes ago and suddenly you're saying that you're going to disappear and never come back?" He couldn't help it even though it made him feel like an idiot; the first few hot tears came wet and fast on his cheeks and he squeezed his eyes shut to stop them. "How do you _expect_ me to react to that?"

"I know it isn't fair of me," England whispered close to his ear, almost managing to sound lulling if only the words themselves weren't made of crystalline splinters barbing their way to America's heart, "but you need to take this responsibility. I'm counting on you to stand with France and Canada against Germany; I'm trusting you with my history." And then, even gentler still, "I haven't any use for your tears."

"Well, they're all I've got to give you," America choked, simultaneously tightening and shrinking.

"Sshhh." England pushed America back from him and wiped at his face with the pads of his thumbs. "None of that, love. Let's not have it like that other goodbye – with one of us in tears."

"Ha." America looked away. "Is this your idea of revenge for back then?"

England shook his head and put his hand to America's cheek.

"As if I'd still be seeking revenge over something so trivial," he said gently.

America looked at him again.

"Is it trivial?" he asked.

"Of course it is," England replied, "if we're allies now."

He took hold of America's lapel and pulled him into a kiss; America tightened his grasp about England's back, the leather of his new bomber jacket creaking thickly as he wrapped his arms around him. It was long, deep, with England trying to shape his goodbye by it; America hesitated, caught between yielding to the passion and rejecting the finality inherent in it. Instead he tried to lengthen it, make the kiss extend past the deadline tearing them apart. He calmed himself enough to breathe through his nose and move his head to keep their mouths together whenever he felt that England might be about to pull away. At this, they were on the brink – it wasn't over until they parted. America would be willing to give up all of his own history and England's inheritance, too, in place of this moment, stretched forever across the frame of time so that it never began and never ended and there were never any goodbyes where one of them cried.

England took him by surprise, twisted free and pulled back. His eyes were wet but his face wasn't.

"I love you," he said; his voice was pleading, promising, as he stepped away.

"I love you too," America said desperately, trying to reach for him again—

He stumbled and almost fell, tripping as something tightened painfully about his legs when he attempted to take a step forward.

"I'm sorry," England said quietly of the rosebushes, thickly lengthened and multiplied across the lawn to have wrapped their coiled stems about his legs to still him.

He hadn't noticed. England had distracted him.

"I know you too well, America," England went on sadly. "You'll only follow me, no matter what I say."

"Let me go!" America tried to grab at the cords crawling and swirling higher to his waist and chest, dragging their thorns across his body, scratching lightly when he was still, biting in deeply when he struggled. He withdrew his hand with a sharp hiss of pain, turning them up to see the bright bloom of blood across his palm to match the incarnadine bloom of the flowers. "England, stop! These things _hurt_!" His wrists were trussed before him, bound by several thorny circlets, so that he stood like a prisoner in the docks, unable to take a step for the confines of England's red roses.

"But what else will bind you but the bloom that we share as our national flower?" England pressed his hands to his lion and unicorn, bidding them to turn with him, to escort him towards the house. "They'll rot and break when I'm gone, so don't worry."

He paused briefly, as though debating looking back at America over his shoulder. He didn't.

"I'm sorry it has to be like this," he said somewhat stiffly. "Goodbye, America."

He was beginning to walk away. America watched him for a long, silent moment, desperately and helplessly unable to stop him. He couldn't move. The tears stung at his eyes again and he tried to blink them away. He couldn't even bring himself to try and manipulate a response from England by whining. He wanted to scream at him, stop him with his voice by pleading, by begging, by sobbing, but it all stuck in his throat like jigsaw pieces that wouldn't fit together to be anything coherent; despair had its cold hand tight around his viscera, stifling absolutely everything.

All he could do was watch him leave.

* * *

His breath clouded before him; stepping back once, twice, heel-to-toe with the snow crunching beneath his boots. The wind tore at his thick coat and scraped his hair back from his face. His red eyes gleamed as he watched, assessed, waited.

Denmark grinned at him. He was not amused in the slightest.

No other remedy than to get stuck in.

Prussia lunged through the snow, all lungs and legs and limbs, all brilliant, all blazing; he burned in spite of the icy wind that needled at him with every motion, with every breath. Dirty work though it may have been, he wanted this (the dirtier, the bloodier, the better). He wanted to kill.

Denmark swung at him, roaring low while his axehead whistled high, and Prussia, at the last awkward moment, had to feint and duck into a roll in order to avoid having his head lopped off by the hungry crescent of metal. He tumbled up with an angry exhale, snow spiraling off him like sparks, and slid and spread to regain his footing. Denmark spun, his hair following like pale flames, and was swinging again, driving the momentum behind the liquescent attack. The blade flashed like a jewel, a deadly spinning circle of hardened steel, and the motion was defensive and offensive all at once. Denmark was a meat grinder – and again Prussia had to leap in an ungainly sprawl to keep the cutting edge from finding flesh. Slamming to the icy ground, he locked his arm against it and used his elbow as a fulcrum to sweep his legs under Denmark. The Dane stumbled but didn't fall, using the long handle of his axe to balance his stagger and keep himself up with a muttered string of cursewords in his own language. It was ungainly, however, and enough to break his perpetual motion.

It was the only opening Prussia needed; he pulled his legs into a crouch before launching himself up with a jaw-shattering uppercut. Denmark grunted in pain as his head was snapped back with a sickening crack. He stumbled again and lost his hat, spitting blood into the snow; but the concussive hit didn't slow him much beyond that. He twisted, shunted, so that the butt of the axe handle slammed into Prussia's gut, knocking him back. Though the move was instinctual, the force behind it was pure, trained precision.

Caught off-guard or not, Denmark was dangerous.

Prussia staggered back, coughing, arm protectively clutching his stomach; with his other, he fumbled more clumsily than he would have liked for his handgun. Denmark was moving again, the axehead's silver crescent rising like the moon, and Prussia whipped his left arm up and squeezed off a misaimed shot. Denmark easily deflected it with the wide head of his weapon, the cheap bullet denting and bouncing off uselessly as though it was a pea. Denmark was warier now, though, his clear eyes on the weapon. He made no attempt to charge again, instead passing the axe from one hand to the other, distractedly back and forth like a pendulum. Prussia knew it was useless to shoot him unless it was point-blank but held the gun level all the same to keep some distance between them until he could get his breath back. He could taste blood pooling in his mouth under his tongue, iron blended with the odor of fresh gun smoke. It was like swallowing fire, all his throat alight, and it made Prussia laugh even with his dented diaphragm still straining to pull in frigid air.

Because, despite the bone-soldering cold and the blood-bright injuries, Prussia couldn't think of anywhere else in the world he wanted to be besides that very hill in the tundra wasteland of the far North. Battle-lust sang a homicidal and merry tune in his blood and adrenaline hummed along in harmony. His entire body was ablaze with delight because the pain and the cold and the wary glint in Denmark's crystalline eyes were all proof of his existence. Proof that he could still fight, that he could still hurt, that he could still _win_.

Complete verification that things were going to be different.

And Russia, lovely Russia, had been right earlier. Their blood _was _warm.

It pebbled the snow with pinpoints of color, baptizing their battleground with pain. _All_ their blood. There was a war and he was fighting in it. This was enough.

Still entertaining the snarling grin stretched viciously over his bloodied teeth, Prussia leaned forward and charged again, skimming over the snow like deadly quicksilver. Denmark was ready for him and raised his axe in an over-head swing, intending to split Prussia's skull before he reached him; throwing his entire weight into the down stroke of the eager edge.

Prussia saw it, knew without needing to think that it would be all over if it hit him, at least for long enough to let Denmark win, and yet he continued with his reckless rush – even more excited for the doom quite literally hanging over him.

It was barely a hair's breadth from him when he realized properly that it was about to cleave his skull in half—

And then he slipped.

He never would have made it to Denmark before the axe split him in two, no matter how fast he thought he was – but Prussia didn't mind taking credit for the fact that Denmark's axe was now lodged a good foot into the rock-hard ground and that he couldn't pull it out as easily as it had slammed in.

Prussia stood again, grinning wickedly as he watched Denmark strain futilely to retrieve his weapon. He let him struggle for a second more before striding forward, shining boots crunching on the very thing that had saved him. Denmark saw him move and left off the stubborn handle to raise his fists but Prussia was faster now that there wasn't metal-death orbiting Denmark's center. He sprang forward, ducking under Denmark's defense, and kicked him brutally in the side. The Nordic country bent around the blow and fell with a harsh bark of pain, landing on his back with all the breath knocked out of him; Prussia noticed for the first time that his adversary was bleeding, the bright smear standing out beautifully against his pale skin and even paler snow framing his face.

None of this – the sadistic artistry of Denmark's bloodied visage – stopped Prussia from leaping onto him, pinning his arms with his sharp knees. Denmark snarled and twisted like an ensnared animal; he was almost strong enough to push Prussia off him with nothing but brute berserker brawns.

Almost.

Despite being smaller than Denmark, Prussia had gravity on his side and a hardworking knowledge of anatomical weak points. His knees ground against the ball joint of Denmark's shoulder, which he knew was undoubtedly excruciating even if they were both sitting perfectly still. The fact that Denmark was struggling violently to pitch Prussia from his painful perch despite the extra agony he was no doubt inflicting on himself told Prussia a more drastic prompt was necessary.

"Hey, settle down – I've beaten you," Prussia cackled; despite his words, he actually enjoyed the way Denmark was squirming, hoped he would continue to struggle, give him an excuse to get messy.

"Says who? I can still fight, fucker!" Denmark snarled in German, shoulder grinding in its captive socket as he thrashed.

"Says who?" Prussia parroted back, dark delight glittering on the undertone as he pressed the cold barrel of his gun against the edge of Denmark's collar bone.

The threat stilled him for an instant before the Dane growled and shifted again, clearly thinking to call Prussia's bluff. Prussia's cruel grin instantly stretched until it was downright _vicious _and he pulled the trigger point-blank. He felt the shot tear through Denmark, a reaction he briefly experienced in stereo as the gun bucked against his hand and Denmark simultaneously bucked against his body. The noise was also echoed from two sources, though Denmark's howl of pain far outlasted the deafening crack of the gunshot.

Denmark continued to writhe, this time due to star-colliding pain rather than defiance, and the snow around them quickly slipped on a sickly sherbet color. Prussia laughed again, more triumphant this time, nosing the barrel of the gun against the entry wound just to rub it in, quite literally. Denmark jerked beneath him as if he were being electrocuted, muscles spasming unchecked as trauma quickly drained his faculties of self-control.

As the nation writhed and cursed breathlessly beneath him, Prussia finally settled his own singularly-focused aggression enough to notice the scuffle that had been dragging distractingly in his periphery the entire time. Russia, on the other end of the hill's spine, was fighting off Sweden and Finland, who had formed a tag team against him. They were smaller but faster and Prussia saw with mingled surprise and smug superiority that Russia was actually taking damage. However, the moment the thought of getting up to help him idly crossed Prussia's mind, Russia delivered a kick to Finland, landing him several feet away before he knocked Sweden down completely and pinned him, knees digging painfully over his arms in a move mirroring Prussia's current position. However, instead of a firearm to bloody him up, Russia simply relied on his _own_ arm (though both methods provided much the same result). Russia viciously punched him, two, three times, and then his hands were around his throat.

Finland had tottered back to his feet by this point, letting out a high-pitched battle cry as he rushed forward to help his downed ally. Prussia grinned again and leveled his still-warm gun, shooting Finland from behind. The bullet burst into his leg, another crimson shower to arc prettily on the white, and he crumpled in the snow with a surprised shriek of pain. Sweden visibly struggled at the sound, trying to get past Russia's choking grip. He couldn't.

"Heh, it's cute how they try so hard," Prussia murmured. He hadn't been addressing Denmark but the Dane nonetheless took it upon himself to answer despite the way his words half-gurgled on pain.

"Shooting him... from behind," he wheezed in disgust. "Do you have no honor?"

Prussia turned slowly to affix a cold and unamused stare upon Denmark.

"Of course I have honor. But I also know its limits; I know exactly how far it can carry a country and exactly where it dumps you." Prussia let a palliative smirk tug the corner of his mouth when he saw Denmark's pain-riddled confusion. "And if I'm going to get my hands dirty anyway, I'll take victory over honor. It's an easy enough decision for me when it's about the only choice I'll have."

Several yards away, Russia was getting up and Sweden was staying down. Maybe Russia had throttled him unconscious, maybe he was dead; Prussia didn't really care. He too got up, knowing full-well Denmark was harmless at this point, and he strode over to meet Russia halfway.

They were both covered in blood, some their own, some their enemies', and both were beaming with their own unique brand of smugness; Prussia's grin full of sharp gloating teeth, Russia's smile hooded with deadly demure.

Prussia was tall but Russia was taller; his large arm went around the small of Prussia's back to help tilt him, lift him, as they kissed. Russia's scarf whipped about them. Prussia exhaled through his nose and felt it mist against their cheeks. Somebody's lip was bleeding and it was difficult to tell whose. Maybe both. Russia wasn't a good kisser; he suffocated – but he also yearned. He held Prussia – battle-scarred, warlike, condemned Prussia – so gently that it made his large rough hands alien, a backwards and upside-down sun to a bloodstained, broken world. The kiss tasted of iron, of machinery, of war.

Then it stopped and they pulled apart. Prussia spat out some blood and Russia spoke first.

"Shall we fetch the others, then?"

"Hold your horses," Prussia grumbled. "Let's dump these three in Denmark's house and use his telephone to call West. I'll bet he's having fucking _kittens_ over whether or not we got the job done."

Russia smiled idly.

"Why should he doubt us?"

Prussia snorted.

"Doesn't trust us."

"Even you?" Russia tilted his head. "After all you have done for him?"

"Yeah," Prussia said thoughtfully, "he wasn't as grateful as I thought he'd be…"

Russia put a hand on Prussia's shoulder.

"I think you have done a good thing, comrade."

Prussia finally put his gun back in its holster and absently looked westward. Towards Norway. Towards Iceland. Towards Britain and France and the Atlantic.

Towards the war.

"Yes," he said flatly, "I think I have, too."

* * *

"Is this necessary?" Austria asked irritably. He made a show of daintily tapping off his spoon against the rim of his teacup and carefully putting it on the patterned saucer; distancing himself, as it were, from the uncultured, uncouth individuals he found himself surrounded by. "I mean, really, Germany, I've been with you since 1938 and the annexation was something that I agreed to—"

"Agreed _with_," Hungary pointed out with a frown, putting a hand to his arm. "They're not quite the same thing."

"Well, yes," Austria sighed. "No matter," he replied in concession; annoyed less by the soft rebuke and more by the fact that she was right.

_Again_.

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand and sipped delicately at his tea; only England was more meticulous about it but at least England was _genuinely_ rapt about the thing. Here, Germany merely got the impression that Austria was trying to intentionally irritate him with the genteel display. He said nothing, however, for Austria could be a thorn in the side (quite deliberately) when the mood took him; he glanced obliquely at Italy, who, at his side, was equally and uncharacteristically silent.

Well, he always _had_ been rather afraid of Austria (though Germany couldn't fathom why).

"What is this, then?" Austria inquired shrewdly a moment later, squinting cautiously at Germany over the rims of his glasses. "A call to arms? A disciplinary meeting?"

The needling tone automatically knitted Germany's eyebrows into a frown and he had to make a conscious effort to smooth out the irritation. He knew Austria was being intentionally obtuse; Germany was determined not to rise to the insolent bait dangling in his demands that Austria tried to pass as thinly-masked query.

"Neither," he began tersely, "and if you would just—"

"Never mind that," Hungary cut in coolly. She gave a haughty toss of her head, her brown hair bouncing about her shoulders; unlike Austria, she was in military uniform and sat with her arms folded and one leg crossed over the other, eyeing Germany rather coldly from their side of the table. "Where's that idiotic brother of yours?"

Italy perked up, looking at her.

"Romano?" he asked innocently.

Germany coughed into his fist.

"She means—"

"I mean Prussia, sweetie," Hungary said, briefly turning her prettiest smile on Italy. "Dear Germany's idiotic brother. Underneath all the abuse and foul language, Italy, I've always thought that yours is rather a darling." She scowled. "Which is more than I can say for Germany's."

Austria gave a sage nod, punctuating it with a little 'hmm' of agreement. Germany rubbed at his temples; they were giving him a headache already. Self-righteous, the pair of them. Oh, he liked Austria and Hungary as much as any man liked his neighbors, they had been good allies to him from time to time and they were, he supposed, both quite nice in their own way, but…

Well. The Great War. These two had started it and Germany had gotten the blame; and now they sat back and shook their heads at him as if to say "We told you so", perched on their pompous presumptions, sipping English tea and making demands. He cleared his throat again, although the noise came out sounding more like a cautionary growl.

"_As_ I was saying," he tried again, looking warningly between Austria and Hungary, "Prussia and Russia are running… a small errand on behalf of our agenda. _This_…" He gestured now to the four of them. "This is merely a little gathering to bring the both of you up to speed. It's not a call to arms, necessarily, so you needn't worry about getting your cravat dirty just yet, Austria."

Austria gave a snort, averting his gaze, nose tipped up just enough to be disdainful but not quite disrespectful.

"We took Poland's house!" Italy piped up cheerfully. "Germany was so strong and brave! Poland was kind of scary and shouty but Germany kept him in line!"

Hungary arched an eyebrow and leaned back in her chair.

"That sounds like a call to arms to me," she said flatly. "Didn't France and England distinctly say that they would declare war on you if you invaded Poland's house?"

"I don't want to go to war with England," Italy moped. "I'm scared of him."

"I didn't want to go to war with England either," Germany replied, his voice taut. "I tried to talk him out of interfering, even offering to let him keep his imperial assets in return for his neutrality, but he was adamant that he was not interested in being anything other than antagonistic towards us." His fists clenched. "He and France _want_ a war."

"Didn't his boss allow you to keep what you took of Czechoslovakia's lands?" Hungary pointed out. She put her hand on Austria's shoulder. "And neither he nor his boss said anything last year when you annexed Austria."

"We approached the matter as a means of uniting German-speaking peoples," Germany answered; he turned to Austria. "You, of course, speak a dialect of German, so the matter of annexation was untouched by England and France. Czechoslovakia was… a little more complicated. All I took of her lands were what was originally mine before the end of the Great War – areas full of German-speakers. France and England had the areas taken from me and repartitioned into Czechoslovakia's territory at Versailles. I was merely taking back what was already mine, and my boss…" Germany hesitated suddenly. He gave a shake of his head. "…Ah, well… that was… how he rallied the people behind the National Socialist call for expansion. We have stolen nothing."

"Except Poland's house," Austria said curtly.

"Much of the land which Poland's house now takes up was, as you know, also once mine and my brother's. Prussia and I were geographically severed entirely by the expansion of Poland's territory after Versailles. With that said, it was easy for us to take his house with a two-pronged attack. Italy and I entered from the west and Prussia and Russia came in from the east."

Hungary looked pointedly at Italy.

"Well, I see that you have allied yourself very firmly with Germany," she observed dryly; Italy gave a fierce nod and moved his chair closer to Germany's as visible confirmation. "Fine. What about Romano?"

"I don't know," Italy admitted. "He is with Big Brother Spain. They are both Fascist like me but I think that they are neutral at the moment."

"And what of Portugal?" Hungary pressed, looking back to Germany, probing for weaknesses. "He's the one to watch. He's been allied with England for centuries."

"Neutral for now, as far as I know," Germany said, "but he can be blockaded if need be. Spain's arm can be easily twisted if it comes down to it."

"Well, either that or you could chase both Portugal and France to the British mainland and bomb the three of them in one go," Hungary murmured thoughtfully, looking up at the ceiling. She pressed her hands together. "Belgium?"

"She might have learnt her lesson from last time but I'm prepared to go through her house again to get to France if I need to."

Hungary's eyes gleamed as the largest chink loomed.

"And America?"

Austria gave a bored sigh, cutting the interrogation off.

"Is this necessary?" he asked, draining his tea.

"No, she's right," Germany said, straightening. "We were defeated last time by being careless, by not taking these things into account. The last thing I expected last time was the intervention of some nations – Australia, for example, and Canada and America."

"Well, you did torpedo America's civilian cruise liner," Austria pointed out.

"I torpedoed _England's_ civilian cruise liner," Germany snapped. "It just happened to have some American passengers on it. Besides, England was lying when he said it didn't have weapons on it. It _did_ have weapons on it – an entire underbelly of them, the little bastard."

"Alright, ladies, settle down," Hungary cut in. "Let's not get bogged down with the politics of the past. I just want to know where we stand concerning the American continent. Canada may prove to be a problem, too, of course – but America is very, very powerful, or has the potential to be, at least." She looked again at Germany very pointedly. "I merely inquire if we are ready to play with that kind of fire."

"If all goes to plan in Europe," Germany replied, "and Japan finishes the machine on schedule, yes, we will be more than ready."

"Those are two very big 'ifs'," Austria said morosely, examining the tea leaves left in his cup.

"It was never going to be anything other than a gamble," Germany replied. "Those who stand against us are formidable – the victors, even, the last time around. We must stand together in order to succeed."

"Ah, yes," Austria mused, finally setting his cup down as his eyes took on a sudden zealous glint. "The creeds of Nazism, of Fascism – strong in our union, in our shared blood, language, future. We must go forth and forge our destiny."

Italy felt for Germany's hand and clutched at it, passionate and hot-blooded, roused by the words; Germany, however, met Austria's gaze across the table.

"The foundation of the Third Reich and the belief of the Führer," he said. "How fitting that _you_ would put it into words, Austria."

"Mm." Austria gave a sudden wry smile, resting his chin on one hand as he become keenly more interested than he had been for the entire meeting thus far. "On that note, I've been meaning to ask, Germany." He nodded towards Germany's uniform – at his upper right arm. "Where's your swastika?"

* * *

"_I wish you wouldn't treat this like a game," Germany said icily, pulling at Prussia's hands; they covered his eyes firmly, however, as his brother urged him __steadily onwards with little bumps from his knees._

"_But it is a game," Prussia replied dryly. "And a surprise, of course."_

_Germany snorted, resisting the urge to let his hands hover in front of him to feel his way._

"_I doubt I'll like it."_

_Prussia gave a wry, unseen smile._

"_I doubt you will," he agreed. "But you will thank me. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But one day you will thank me."_

_Germany stalled suddenly, hesitating, too cautious to take another step; Prussia dug insistently at the small of his back._

"_Come on, West, don't be such a fucking coward," he hissed in his ear._

"_Is it cowardly of me to mistrust you?" Germany bit out. "God knows you've not done a useful thing for me since before the Great War—"_

"_To hell with your wars, you stupid prick," Prussia snapped. "You'll ruin us before you resurrect us with the attitude you've got right now."_

"_It is not simply my own attitude," Germany replied coldly. "Do not forget that the whole of the nation is behind me – an entire political party founded on the promise of our return to greatness. How can I help it when it is in the cheers and salutes of my people?"_

"_It's not your people I have a problem with," Prussia replied lightly._

"_Me, then?"_

_Prussia shook his head__; Germany could feel it rather than see it._

"_Try again," he said; and he kicked open the doors, taking with a flourish his hand from Germany's blue eyes._

_Germany blinked as the sudden assault of light left him momentarily blinded, blurs swimming into crystalline focus as the surprise slowly raked itself over his senses. He was utterly speechless, all thought and breath leaving him a silent witness to the horror slowly, painfully tattooing itself across his body._

_Germany tried to swallow, found he couldn't as his blood thickened with __repulsion, nausea, confusion, leaving him moving in slow motion._

"_Wh… what…?" It was the only thing he could articulate, finally tearing his eyes away to see if perhaps he was imagining it, hoping to see that his horror was not mirrored on Prussia's face. However, his brother's visage held neither revulsion nor reassurance; rather, he looked fiercely pleased with himself, his crimson eyes gleaming like blazing coals in his pale face. _

_The look of vicious pride was nearly as shocking as the surprise itself, enough to jar Germany's voice back into compliance._

"_Did… did you do__ this?" _

"_Gleefully," Prussia answered, grinning._

"_I…" _

_Germany looked back at the room – at the mess, what was left of the __main office of the __Braunes Haus. It was in ruins, the furniture overturned and broken, splinters scattering the floor in an ugly mockery of parade confetti. The drapery, thick red velvet, had been torn down; and the flags, boldly crimson and black to represent blood and soil, hung in tatters, deliberately and delicately slashed out to deface the stark swastikas at their hearts. The eagle, perched proudly atop another encircled swastika, which had once sat at the center of the drapery-and-flag display had been shattered irreparably, Germany finding a part of wreath so far-flung as to be near the toe of his boot. And over everything, wind whistling through a broken window pane lifted all manner of paper, plans and maps and battle strategies, and showered them about the room like scheming snowflakes. _

_The__ wreckage, however, was not the crowning glory of Prussia's "gift"; this was the further red which pooled darkly on the floor, fast congealing, drying stickily on the brown uniforms from which the Nazi headquarters in Munich took its name. How many bodies (he could barely bring himself to count them)? Six, seven..._

_He put his hand to his mouth, stepping backwards involuntarily. His palm was not enough to stay the shocked words which rasped out next:_

"…_You have killed my Führer." _

"_Mercy killing," Prussia said blandly, folding his arms. "Mercy on you, that is." He paused, casting his own gaze over the room; his smile broadened in satisfaction. "…And mercy on me. Now he cannot use either of us as an excuse."__ Glancing sidelong at his brother, he went on; "You don't need him – you don't need his words to drug you. Believe me, this regime is disastrous. It will not end well for us if you pursue solely the Führer's doctrine. By all means, make us great again – crown the Third Reich with German victory, take all of Europe if that is what you want. But trust me on this."_

_Germany simply stared at him._

"_I__ thought... you were on my side," he said quietly. It was all he could muster, letting the weak half-accusation bounce about the desecrated room, echoing uselessly off the pooling human pitch as the shock of losing his leader left Germany completely numb._

_Prussia unfolded his arms and stepped towards his brother, his footsteps echoing in the wake of the words. He reached up and straightened the Iron Cross at Germany's collar before touch__ing his own, his fingers closing around it._

_He met Germany's __still-wide eyes._

"_I am on your side, West," he replied. _

* * *

England was gone and the street empty.

The world was shrinking, edges crinkling to black, sucking the very color from the air and leaving America swimming through monochromatic tunnel vision. He wasn't sure if the blinders arose due to the blood roaring in his head or if the land was truly reacting to the loss of its symbol, the gyre pin for reality. Regardless, there was only one goal, one thought, one direction screaming through him and the sudden limit on his vision simply verified what he knew he already had to do.

There was no question about it, really. England had told him not to pursue and had given some kind of cryptic, half-assed reason why he shouldn't. He had tried to keep him out here by force.

Naturally, America was going to follow him; absolutely no question about it. The strange hard-boiled effect of the air around him only augmented his determination.

America pulled and heaved at the roses wrapped about his wrists, thrashing with single-minded panic as England burrowed further away from him. His muscles burned and fizzled with lactic acid from the effort and the thick stems tensed in response – as if they were living things, anaconda coils barbed with inch-long thorns. They stretched when he yanked but offered no further give; he was strong, yes, but so were they, and the thorns, too, shredded his skin, scraped audibly at the fur and leather of his jacket. His hands stung and bled in a patch-work of pulsing puncture wounds as he wrestled them free, cursing under his breath, a ragged gash given to the back of his right hand to mark its reluctant escape.

Here, however, they suddenly began to weaken, reaching their half-life and giving up on their hold on him as if they no longer felt him worth their holding prisoner; though America felt that this wasn't something to rejoice in. It could only mean that England's command over them had been brought up short – and he wasn't exactly sure he wanted to know the reason why. Scrambling free, tripping a bit in his haste and tearing a few more gashes down his legs from the last tenacious tendrils, America could right himself only by breaking into a run; he made a straight sprint for the house, the sight of the thing visibly drowning before him only making him more determined still to break into the protective shell of it that England had retreated into like some precious pearl.

Half of the house was already below street level, meaning that the front door was definitely out of bounds – he took note of it as he carefully picked his way across uprooted cobbles and paving slabs, turning his attention upwards to the pitched gable as he leapt lightly onto the nearest of the massive roots for better footing. Reaching for the nearest vein – the thickness of a generously-sized branch beneath his hand – he started to pull himself up, his gaze fixated very determinedly on the lit window six feet or so above him. He clambered higher, taking footholds and handles wherever he found them, wondering how the hell England had gotten in – he hadn't seen _him_ squirreling it up the fucking house like this, that was for sure—

He slipped and lost his footing, grabbing in a panic at a handful of foliage and stopping himself with a terrified gasp; there went his overseas hat, fluttering back to Earth like a camel-colored autumn leaf. He pushed up his slipping glasses, which he had almost lost as well, and heaved himself up again, dragging his body the final foot or two and catching onto the jut of the windowsill. He sat on the curve of the root, one foot braced against it and the other on the windowsill, as he appraised the window itself.

The glass had a single crack splitting diagonally straight across it like a lone, stationary strand of spider silk, although the wooden frame was beginning to creak under the pressure of the forceful compression. America felt that he didn't have time to sit here, nonetheless, and wait for the window to give in by itself. He pressed his palm against his fist to double the force of the blow and used the momentum of his entire torso to slam his elbow against the brittle pane, smashing it inwards with one sharp motion. He scrambled onto the sill, took hold of the top of the windowframe and swung into the room feet-first, landing non-too-gracefully on dark red carpet that he knew well.

This was the bedroom. The light was on, swinging back and forth so that the circular glow roved across the walls and floor, flickering every now and then as the damage to the house toyed with the electricity. The floor was slanting downwards, angled to the left, and the bed and all the other furniture had slid towards that wall, cluttering like a dam. The dresser was on its side and the mirror had smashed, the scattered pieces glinting on the carpet beneath the moving light; smaller roots from the tree had slipped beneath the joinings in the wallpaper and were spreading across the wall below it, pushing upwards against it like veins beneath hot skin. The sickening slither of them made America's flesh crawl as he made his way across the tilted floor, his hand and side pressed by gravity against the thick bough that weaved across the floor like a giant snake, swallowing up the room.

The bedroom. _England's_ bedroom. It wasn't all that special to look at. The wallpaper was plain, the furniture was nice but not terribly unique, the bed was comfortable but old; the things in it, too, the possessions – they were replaceable enough. Suits, mostly; shoes, combs, underwear, ties, cufflinks, little odds and ends, not just England's but America's, too. Material possessions that were bothersome to lose but not heartbreaking. No, it wasn't that physical loss that made his heart ache when he saw the ruin.

It was that this room was the circlet of their intimacy (here, at least, in England's home). The bed was their bower; and to them, then, the vessel of their private world. Here was their haven from prying eyes, from politics, from foreign policies. It wasn't about war or peace, about language or culture or history. Here, tiny details designed by their odd domesticity were instead at the core of their world; a kiss, getting dressed whilst making idle conversation about the weather, inquiring if the other had seen a lost tie clip, lovemaking, waking up in each other's arms, snuggling up with tea in bed on a cold rainy morning. Every intricacy was an escape.

It really was just a room, he supposed; it really was just a bed. It was memory, existence, that had etched those meanings into these walls, into the fixtures. Laid to waste against the wall, he could clearly see that the bed was no more than any other bed. It was history that made it hurt; that made it hard to let go.

The ceiling shook, creaked, and a fine shower of plaster came loose, scattering across the floor like sickly, powdery snow; the light gave a final shudder and went out as America panicked and scrambled the last few feet towards the bedroom door. The doorframe was collapsing, almost entirely blocked by the root as it descended from the bedroom and out into the hallway; another had slithered across the top of the crushed frame, leaving only a small, difficult, obviously-tight-fucking-squeeze of a gap for him to get through. He planted his hands against the top root and pushed it at with all of his strength, trying to make the opening bigger, but it budged barely a centimeter or so before it was like shoving against concrete, for all the good it did. The room shuddered again, a crack splitting the ceiling like a bolt of lightning so that the lampshade fell and swung by its wires like a hanged man, and America knew it was either get crushed trying to get through the gap or get crushed standing here wringing his hands about it.

He put his hands on the bough and hoisted himself up, squirming through the awkward triangle-gap whilst praying to every deity he could think of (and a few he made up on the spot) that he didn't get wedged and then squashed like a bug when the doorframe inevitably gave out. His language became considerably more profane when he _did_ jam about the waist, the practically-nothing jut of his hips having none of it so that, after angrily kicking a bit, he had to actually _stop and rethink_ the angle at which he was trying to slither through the positively un-human-shaped opening. During this brief pause, at which he slumped over the contour of the bough like a limp sock on a washing line, he found himself quite glad that the object of his search (England) was not in the immediate vicinity, knowing that said object of said search (England) would crow at him for having gotten his fat arse stuck – which may or may not have been the case but was rude nonetheless and he felt indignant about the remark even though England hadn't actually made it. It made him quite determined to prove that he _wasn't_ stuck, thanks all the same for the concern, and after a bit more quasi-mathematical finagling, he managed to twist his hips marginally the other way so that the bitch of a gap agreed marginally more with him not being fucking _triangular_ in shape. He wriggled loose victoriously and landed flat on his face in the hall.

There sounded the telltale _clatter_; he pushed onto his hands and knees with a groan and began to grope for his glasses, wishing that it wasn't so dark and that he wasn't so short-sighted. From here, without them, he could see a blur of light further down the hallway but couldn't make out what it was. He fumbled in his uniform jacket pocket for his lighter as he squinted at the feathery flare of light, his thumb finding it, cold and smooth, nestled deep in the lining with a few stray coins. Pulling it out, he snapped it open and lit it, the catching spark bright like a lodestar in the dark landing and the flame itself boldly yellow, a tiny sun in his hand. His glasses glinted in the light a foot or so away and he snatched them up gratefully, jamming them back on as he stood with the lighter held out before him.

"England?" he called, his voice bouncing off the sliding walls and sinking ceilings. Again, the eerie, unnatural silence of the demolition impressed itself upon him; even his own voice seemed muted, as though shouting against dusty velvet.

No answer. Again. He looked to the light with his vision cleared; it was coming from under the door at the end of the hall, streaming through any gap that it could as though to beckon him forward. He flipped off his Zippo and pocketed it, starting down the hall very carefully.

"_England_!" A second time, more impatiently, he tried the name, once again receiving nothing for his pains. "_ENGLAND_!"

Huh. Well, the lion and unicorn had appeared, meaning that this whole thing was probably pretty formal. "England", after all, wasn't England's official name as a nation. It was more of an informal nickname, proper and accurate enough for it to not be _too_ familiar whilst remaining far less of a mouthful than his more certified title – which, at nine words (and still eight if you dropped the article), took the cake for being pretentious, America had always thought.

Not to mention that England actually had _several_ names, which America (having had the whole list downloaded into him) now began to run through in a bid to reach him. He tried Britain, Great Britain, United Kingdom, UK, United Kingdom _of_ Great Britain and Northern Ireland; growing more desperate with British Empire, Albion and Angle-Land, all to no avail; before falling back on the human plea.

"Arthur?" he tried, pausing briefly at feeling the banister close by his hand. "_Arthur_!"

It sounded odd to his ear. He had never called England 'Arthur' in his life.

He stepped forwards again – just as the landing gave a sudden violent tilt. The roof pulled sharply inwards, so close that one of the splintered rafters almost touched his head as he stumbled where the stairs had been mere moments ago. Naturally, they were no longer there to break his fall and he fell backwards, saving himself by grabbing again at the banister and clinging to it, chest heaving and feet dangling, as the quivering house stilled once more.

Swinging in oblivion with no foothold, the wrecked banister creaking in protest at his extra weight on its twisted frame, America was suddenly struck with the very novel notion that he hadn't entirely thought this rescue mission through. Noble and heroic as it was – and it _was_, very much so, he felt – he was probably going to be killed carrying it out.

Something in the banister broke and the whole thing lurched a foot or so lower, America flailing on it, clinging harder as he squinted about in the darkness for something sturdier to climb onto whilst simultaneously being unable to entertain any thought other than a mantra of _I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to die_—

There was a flash and a clashing of metal as the banister shuddered again and a cold, hard hand snatched America about his wrist and pulled him upwards just as the whole thing broke away from the landing and went crashing down the hole where the stairs had once been. Panting, his feet gratefully touching solid floor again, America pulled out his lighter again as his rescuer let go of his wrist, holding the flicker aloft to see by.

A man of about his own height stood before him, clad in a suit of armor which blushed a beautiful burnished gold beneath the lighter's glow. His hair, too, was a class of gold, darker and brassier than England's bright straw-shade, matching his short, well-trimmed beard. He did not look terribly unlike France, in fact, but for his eyes, which were the same distinctive, jealous green as England's. A gold band set at sparse intervals with deep-colored jewels flashed at his pale brow.

The man – whose name from England's borrowed experiences America sought desperately to unearth – frowned handsomely, looking America up and down.

"You are not whom we are expecting," he said in a low, deep voice. His accent was different to England's, more lyrical and lilting. "And yet you called me by name."

It clicked.

"…Arthur," America managed to say weakly. "You're… _King_ Arthur."

Closing his eyes briefly, King Arthur gave a slow, sage nod.

"An attendant to my England on this, the final day of his choosing." His jade eyes opened again, appraising America. "You, sir, called to me – and called to England, too, by each of his names. If you are one of his servants, however, I cannot profess to know you. I find, also, that each of us is gathered but for one – for him we wait. You are not he."

"N-no, I'm… I'm, uh…" With "America" on the tip of his tongue, he nonetheless paused, thinking better of it. America. What was America to King Arthur, who had "existed" so many centuries before his birth?

However, he felt that he didn't have to lie, either.

"Alfred," he said. "My name is Alfred."

Arthur nodded; but looked him up and down once more.

"How strangely you are clad," he said. "And a historical figure, no less, who descends to join us. I am surprised."

"He… he means everything to me," America said desperately. "England, I mean. Please, if you know where he is, your majesty, take me to him."

Arthur gave a nod.

"Very well, if it pleases your majesty," he replied, turning on his heel; his richly red cloak swayed at his back. "Come. We are assembled. The presence of his last Anglo-Saxon king cannot hurt."

Still holding the lighter, America followed King Arthur across the shaking landing to the lit room; the doorframe was laced about with English roses, which slithered like serpents and twisted more tightly around the wood. He ducked beneath them after King Arthur, coming into the tiny storage room he had stood in with England only the afternoon before, admiring his collection of sentimental old trinkets. It was lit by a few old gaslamps, placed here and there about the floor, whilst everything remained untouched, even the royal coat of arms still swinging on the nail where America himself had hung it.

Ah, but here he nonetheless found himself in quite different company.

Snapping the lighter shut and slipping it back into his bomber jacket pocket, he glanced around; even with Arthur at his side, he still found himself at the moderation of three other figures, all of whom surveyed him with varying degrees of interest (and all with those same brilliant bottle-green eyes he long and intimately knew as England's). The nearest, sat on a nailed crate, he recognized immediately, having often seen him in the company of his own Uncle Sam; a portly man with white hair, a red velvet tailcoat and a black top hat, this was John Bull, the frontispiece of Britain in political cartoons or propaganda. Perched on the windowsill, knife in hand as he worked on an arrow shaft, was a spry, narrow man with fair hair, clad all in green but for a red feather stuck in his cap; with his image having been borrowed by his own film industry in the 1920s, America knew the fellow at once as Robin Hood. To the right, arranged majestically upon a chest, her Union Flag shield and spear glinting and her white robes folded and flowing just so, lounged the beauteous Britannia, again the counterpart to America's own Columbia. Her Roman helmet was the same color as the tawny beast which lay at her feet – the lion again, which stirred and rose on account of America, growling low and rumbling in his throat as he recognized the young nation as the pest from before.

"Does our lion not know you?" Arthur asked with interest, looking to America as he backed up a step from the creature. "How curious."

"Not only the lion; who is this fellow?" John Bull inquired haughtily. He squinted at America. "Hmm. He looks like Sam's boy, if you ask me." He gave a snort of a laugh. "How ironic of you to bring a Yankee into your court, Arthur."

"This is Alfred the Great," Arthur conceded mildly, not doing much to prevent the lion from backing America up against the doorframe regardless.

"_King_ Alfred the Great?" Robin Hood asked lazily. He scoffed. "Why would King Alfred come amongst _us_?"

"Why indeed?" Bull agreed, his eyes gleaming at predator and prey as Arthur finally began to move his hand towards Excalibur. "Leave him, Arthur – let us see what comes of this."

The lion, having cornered America, sniffed at him, suddenly growing more cautious. The growling stopped and instead he inclined his great head towards one of America's hands, broad tongue flickering out to lap a long wet sand-paper swipe at the blood left from his battle with the rose thorns. America held his breath, hoping that the thing wasn't getting a taste of him and deciding whether or not he'd make a good meal.

Presently, however, the lion seemed to nod and drew back, returning to Britannia's side. Her white hand came to the lion's head, caressing him as he lay at her side again.

"He is of England's blood," she said, looking at America, "as we all are." She gave a nod of her own. "If you wish to attend, Alfred, then by all means join us."

America gave a shaky nod of thanks, glancing around; he rubbed his hand on his uniform trousers, grateful for England's borrowed blood, that it had forced the lion to recognize him (falsely) as one of Britain's stock.

"Where is he?" he asked. "Where's England?"

"He will come presently," Arthur replied.

"We wait for him," Robin added placidly, going back to his arrow. "And for George."

"Bloody George," Bull grumbled. "Always late." He was still regarding America rather suspiciously. "You there, boy."

"King Alfred the Great," Arthur corrected reprovingly. "You ought to address his majesty properly, Bull."

"Ah, th-there's no need for that, really," America said, waving his hand at Arthur. "Uh, your majesty, King Arthur, sir."

Arthur looked at him in bewilderment as Bull gave a fake, pronounced cough to draw America's attention back to him.

"It cannot have escaped your notice," Bull said archly, "that we assembled here are of a symbolic nature." He gestured first to himself, then to Britannia. "His propaganda and his spirit." Nodding towards Arthur and Robin, he added, "And his folklore heroes. St George is his sword and shield. None of us have any grounding in history. That is why we are here." His eyes narrowed. "And yet you, whether you are who you say you are or not, are unmistakably of his history, not of his word."

"Ah, yes," Robin agreed musically, standing. He canted his head to one side with a smile. "Look at his eyes. They are as blue as the sky."

"Does it matter so much?" America asked frostily. "Why should your goodbye be so exclusive?"

Britannia gave a slow, thoughtful nod.

"Why, indeed?" she said. She gestured to the floor next to her – one of the only empty spaces left in the tiny room but for the vacant centre. "Will you not make yourself comfortable, your majesty?" She looked reprovingly at Bull. "Really, Bull, you have no manners at all."

"But I have eyes," Bull replied coolly, folding his arms as America sat next to Britannia on the floorboards. "And I say that he really does look most awfully like Sam's brat."

"I do not care much for Sam, whoever he is," Robin said blandly. "Do stop talking about him."

Bull gave another irritable snort and pulled out a pocket watch on a gold chain from his yellow waistcoat to consult the time. The lion, having taken a sudden more amiable turn, nudged his head against America's arm; America patted absently at him, rubbing the animal deep in his mane behind the ears, which he seemed to enjoy. America glanced about at his silent, somber companions; he could barely hold his tongue amidst them, aching to ask all that they knew about what was happening to their nation. The room stank of waiting, hung heavily and humidly in the air, and he didn't know how they could all stand it so calmly.

He looked at Arthur, standing guard at the door with one hand stayed steadily on his sword. Mighty King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, his wise teacher Merlin and his beautiful queen Guinevere; England had lulled America to sleep once upon a time to tales about this noble king of legend, too wonderful to have a grain of truth to them, and yet here he stood before him, real flesh and blood, having simply stepped out of a storybook and onto the pages of reality.

He looked, too, at Robin Hood, whose tales also had been what England had so generously fed the appetite of a child's dreams – his adventures in Sherwood Forest with Maid Marian, Little John and Friar Tuck, robbing the rich to give to the poor. Here, two of the heroes of his childhood stood silently in the same room as him, waiting for the same thing. He didn't have it in him to be starstruck at this precise moment but it nonetheless awed him to silence; he looked up at King Arthur, from whom England's people had given their nation his human name, and found that he couldn't utter a word.

The room gave a sudden shudder and the floorboards began to buckle and crack, forcibly pushing apart to allow several thick tendrils to come bursting upwards into the room. They frayed outwards like a crown, the heart empty of a jewel, whilst the ends of the vast roots took purchase of the walls and ceiling, pausing when settled; and pulsing, ready, waiting. America scrambled to his feet with the others, turning towards the doorway at their lead, his heart hammering in his chest. The roses embroidered about the doorframe now began to grow and spread, weaving like wildfire across the walls, blooms unfurling fast and red like drops of blood; their thick stems began to wind around the vines, stitching themselves into the design of the crude bower bursting upwards from the floor. Across the floor, too, they began to flourish, creating a crimson carpet which weaved across the floor, lush and thick like velvet. It threw itself before the figure who, with the unicorn at his side and England in his arms, stood in the threshold.

A man, but barely; he was perhaps about nineteen or twenty, dark brown hair falling tousled almost to his shoulders, with those same vividly green eyes. He was dressed plainly, silver mail glittering coldly at his limbs, with no armor over it – only a white tunic with a simple red cross emblazoned boldly on the breast. From his leather belt hung a sword in a basic scabbard.

King Arthur was the first to go down on one knee before St George; the others followed suit in silence and America felt that he should do the same for fear of blowing his cover as a great English king. He looked up through his eyelashes, however, watching England limp and unconscious (perhaps asleep) in George's grasp. Despite his youth, George appeared to be very strong, for he carried his country – an adult man, in human terms – with might and care, holding him under his back and knees with his head supported on the chainmail at the saint's shoulder.

America wanted desperately to spring up, snatch England out of his patron saint's arms and shake him roughly; but the mood of the room stilled even him. He barely dared to breathe, let alone think such rebellious thoughts, as he rose again with the others. St George had nodded to each of them without a word and followed the pathway of roses towards the splayed roots of the tree, the unicorn following him closely; reaching it, he placed his country in the cradle of it with careful ceremony, arranging him like a corpse with his hands folded just under his ribcage.

_Don't,_ America wanted desperately to say as he watched. _Don't act like he's dead; don't treat him like a corpse in a coffin._

St George stepped back, patting at the unicorn's muzzle as she nosed miserably at his shoulder, and looked about the room.

"We seem," he said, his voice light and pleasant but devoid of any emotion, "to all be gathered."

"That is correct, your grace," Britannia replied.

St George nodded to her and looked at America, who was determined to stand his ground against the newcomer as he had against John Bull.

"This is Alfred, your grace," Robin announced boredly. "That is what he goes by, at least. Bull insists on going on about a relation to a fellow named Sam."

Bull _harrumphed_ impatiently and George merely tilted his head.

"Alfred," George repeatedly absently.

"Yes, your grace," America replied tersely, his fists clenching.

It wasn't a lie, after all.

George shrugged his sloping shoulders gracefully, his tunic rippling with the motion.

"Very well," he said. "Whatever pleases you. Join us if you will – but know that we are gathered here to leave this world forever."

"And that's alright with you?" America asked, meeting George's gaze. "With all of you? You don't think this is totally fucking selfish of England?"

"Mind your language," Bull bit out, eying America with dislike. "There is a lady and a saint present."

America ignored him, gazing intently at St George – who met his eyes emotionlessly.

"Well?" he prompted. "Is this alright? He's dragging you all down with him—"

"We exist solely for him," George interrupted, "and because of him. If he goes willingly to history's mercy, we have no choice but to go with him."

"Doesn't that make you mad?" America pressed desperately; he wondered if _his_ George – his first president – had been named after this man. "Don't you feel like defying him? Why don't you simply refuse to go along with his wishes? He's selfish, you know; I guess he can't help it, he always has been, but he's pretty accustomed to getting his own way and I can only reckon it's because _you_ guys let him walk all over you in matters like this!"

"_Alfred_," Bull intoned unkindly, "I suggest that you keep your _revolutionary poisons_ to yourself."

St George put up his hand to command silence, for both Robin and Arthur, in addition to America himself, had been on the verge of speaking out at this.

"I will not hear argument on the matter," he said flatly. "All of you will kindly hold your tongues."

This they did; though America obeyed with a dose of salt, wanting badly to argue his point. It wasn't as easy to speak against England's symbols, however, as it was to argue with England himself. They didn't bait as easily, he thought, and they were all rather high and mighty about themselves – _more_ than England, in fact, who was rather stuck up himself at times but nonetheless didn't parade around in Medieval dress carrying a shield emblazoned with his own flag.

And at least he smiled. At least he laughed. At least he got flustered and embarrassed and angry; sentimental, sometimes, sweet and downright slushy if the mood took him. He at least, for all his faults, had a _personality_, which appeared to be more than America could say for these splintered symbols of his, all of whom were stoically invested only in their singular duties to serve and represent.

"You are not like us, Alfred," St George concluded, looking at America. "It is obvious. For this we will not judge you. If England means so much to you that you have followed him here, we will not punish you, nor turn you away. Stay, if you will – you will be welcome amongst us, who exist only to serve our England."

"That is not my purpose," America said coolly. "I do not _serve_ him."

"Then clearly you come amongst us for the other reason we gather about him now," St George went on gently. "We love him." He held his hand out towards America. "For that, too, you are welcome."

America hesitated to put his hand in George's, looking around at them all; they had gathered into a circle about the tree roots which formed for England's lifeless body a crude casket and the patron saint, the most important of this group of figures made up of representatives and fictional heroes, was inviting him in even though there really was no place for him.

"I want to protect him," America said in a small voice, suddenly feeling a bit pathetic compared to them (given that he had followed England initially more out of sheer defiance than anything else); they who stood around their country without an opinion, rightful or otherwise, upon his decision, without question in their loyalty. He realized that he wanted to be like them only now – when he could see that there was no undoing this and that England was already surrounded by more protectors and guardians than he could ever possibly have need for. "…I want…I want to make sure that he's safe."

"Then come," St George said. "He will be glad of your care."

America took his hand and allowed himself to be led into the circle; Britannia closed her pale hand about his other palm as they all linked up.

St George looked at King Arthur.

"It is you with whom he shares his name," he said. "It should be you, Arthur."

Arthur gave a nod.

"Very well," he said, "but I will not use Excalibur for this. Only your sword will do."

"Ah," St George hummed, "Ascalon for Avalon. That is fair indeed."

He reached for his own sword, drawing it from its bland leather scabbard; the weapon, too, was plain, much simpler in its construction than what was noticeable in simply the swirling, bejeweled hilt of Excalibur at Arthur's hip. George kissed the cross-guard of Ascalon as he handed it over; Arthur carefully took it and raised it above his head – above England, his sacred ground, his country.

"W-wait…" America stalled in horror as the preparatory motion shocked him breathless. "What… what are you doing…?"

"Ending our history," St George said calmly. "How do you end a history, do you think?"

"No… you'll _kill_ him…!" America tried to wrestle free of George and Britannia but they kept a firm grip on him as Arthur aligned the point of Ascalon with England's heart. "Stop! You… you said you all _loved_ him…!"

"And so we do," St George replied, suddenly sounding more like the young man he actually was; vulnerable, somewhat, and perhaps secretly unhappy with his duty. "We are doing as he asked us to. We cannot break a vow that we made in love to our nation. To do otherwise would make us traitors."

"Better traitors than murderers!" America cried, still straining against the hold on him, fighting in earnest now; though they, like the roses, held him fast for all his twisting.

"Not in this case," St George said softly.

The blade hovered in the supernatural light, sharp edge gleaming for its final duty, and America couldn't help but notice the way it hung there for an eternity, a broken and stationary pendulum that refused to tick the moments of England's life any longer, rather fixing to end it with that very stillness. Whether it was through the King's hesitation or his own denial, America felt a shock sluice through him when the statuesque pose shattered and the sword descended. King Arthur plunged down the sword, deaf (as they all were) to America's choking, pleading shout. It went in easily without any resistance, without any noise or blood or spasm, as though England's body – Arthur's earth – was accepting it as a natural part of his form. Ascalon's blade glinted, boldly upright and half-submerged, as King Arthur stepped back, relinquishing his hold on it. The room suddenly shook violently and the physical reminders of England's history, all the old useless forgotten things that crammed the shelves, began to slide and crash to the floor as though in a precise and practiced symphony.

America pulled furiously again and they finally let him go; he stumbled on the shuddering floor and threw himself across England as though prostrating himself upon his ground, groping blindly at the legendary sword and tugging—

To no avail. It held fast. The ceiling cracked and buckled inwards, pressed suddenly downwards by one of those gargantuan roots so intent on taking back Britain. England didn't stir and his ringed guardians encircled him still in complete silence, the lion curled about Britannia's legs and the unicorn at St George's side.

The room was sinking beneath them and they with it.

America spoke; but the words, he felt, were not truly his own, welling up from within his heart; bubbling from his borrowed blood, the history that wasn't truly his.

"Is there no remedy?" he asked, his forehead pressed to England's clasped hands.

"As good to die and go, as die and stay," Arthur replied gently; and here, too, America knew his words well. "Heaven take my soul – and England keep my bones."

* * *

Boatload of ANs here. Sorry! You don't have to read them all if you don't want to. XD

Some literary references:

**1]** This final exchange between America and King Arthur are lines from Shakespeare's _King John_ (which is one of his lesser-known ones, to put it mildly); all three lines are spoken by a character who is _also_ named Arthur. The final one used here, "Heaven take…" is, in fact, Arthur's very last line before he dies. We used these for several reasons: The name of the character, obviously, but also because Arthur was, like most of the characters in this play (it's one of Shakey's Histories), an actual historical figure. What happened to him? No-one knows. It's speculated that he was murdered (he had a claim to the English throne) but, to all intents and purposes, he simply disappeared. (c whut we did thar?)

**2]** John Bull refers to King Arthur's bringing America into the room as bringing a Yankee into his court: It's a very obvious play on Mark Twain's novel _A Connecticut Yankee__ in the Court of __King Arthur__._

**On Prussia (and why he did what he did): **Well, with this fic, by this point it's no secret that some of the characters know rather more than others, things that they shouldn't know. In Prussia's case, it's been implied more than once that he knows what is going to happen to him after the war unless he does something about it. So here's the real history: Hitler was a huge "fan" of Prussia and its famous king, Frederick the Great (or 'Old Fritz', as he's affectionately known!) and modeled a lot of the Nazi social and military regimes on those of Frederick's Prussia. 'Prussia' became synonymous with 'great military power', something which Hitler wanted his new Nazi German to emulate. Given that Prussia, in _Pangaea_, knows what will befall him in the aftermath of the war that his side will lose (and knows, also, the damage that it will do to Germany), he decides to take some initiative and prevent his "name" being used as the frontispiece for eventually crippling his brother and leading to his own abolition. His solution is to remove Nazi power from Germany's government and see how far the Axis cause gets on its own, which means he's still not _really_ the good guy here…

Incidentally, Prussia has actually technically been abolished _twice_; the Kingdom of Prussia was abolished in 1918 by the Allies after WWI for much the same reasons as the later, final abolition in 1945 of the Free State of Prussia, which it became after the Treaty of Versailles had carved a lot of it up. In 1933, Prussia came under the rule of Hitler – it was the beginning of the end. D:

**On Nazism**: Both of us were extremely critical of _Hetalia Axis Powers_ when we first heard of it. We judged it before ever having seen it simply because it sounded like the show was chibifying history; taking things like war, the Holocaust, the atomic bombings and all other things grim and gruesome in human history and making them into something cute, profitable and acceptable. Something to fangirl over.

It took all the cosplayers at Yaoicon 2009 combined to convince us to even give the show a viewing. Predictably once we actually watched it we were hooked and jumped fandom and everything. However that initial knee-jerk disgust for the concept still lingers, especially when fandom does idiotic things to make us all look bad and we cringe at mere association with it.

We think the reason why _Hetalia_ was palatable to us despite all that misgiving is because the show never touches on the darker side of the history it's poking fun at. It keeps thing very light and funny so even the stereotypes it's playing up can't be taken seriously; you just have to laugh at it (which is also why we don't like the dub very much because of the unnecessary crop of Jewish jokes they decided to insert). Germany specifically was an important character that convinced us this show was a good thing; they never even bring up the _word _Nazi, let alone make it into a plot device. Because it is a very messy question for _Hetalia_'s rendition of Germany: Is he or is he not Nazi Germany? Not all Germans _were_ Nazis so can he be both? And if he is, what does that mean for him? For the show? The lens you view him through is very important and has drastic ramifications for what message they are sending (whether intentional or not). Not bringing it up at all and leaving it open to interpretation is really the only acceptable way of going about it from a canon perspective.

Which leaves fandom as the place to get into the messy bits and pieces. And so, this chapter. Germany's Nazism is exorcised via Prussia before it has a chance to "sink in". We chose to do this very intentionally: 1. It's important for the story we are telling; this removal has significant consequences. 2. Germany as a country can never be wholly Nazi to begin with, and portraying him as such is dangerously reductionist. 3. The Milgram experiments of the 60s and the Zimbardo experiments of the 70s show just how easily swayed humans are to do ugly, degrading, and unspeakable acts under the right circumstances. The term 'banality of evil' sums up this phenomenon. And we are consciously choosing to remove the banality that Nazi leaders created.

Whew, enough heavy stuff! We want to thank you all for reading and we hope you enjoyed this chapter! Things are getting interesting, no? ^^

RR and Narroch

xXx

P.S: Last orders for this plug: _Rockets_, a USUK doujin collaboration between **Hakuku** and myself. It's an AU about fashion designer!Arthur and model!Alfred. I wrote the script and Haku is currently working her socks off on the lovely artwork! There's a link to Haku's accompanying tumblr – which in turn supplies links to the first two chapters of the doujinshi – on my profile so please check it out! =)


	6. Keep Calm and Carry On

It has frankly been a truly _disgusting_ amount of time since this was last updated. SO… we won't even discuss it. XD

HERE WE ARE~!

Thanks to: **Bulmaaa, Just Call Me Zyzix, Autumn Eclipse, DesktopNeko, TwistedRoses132, pandawolf, IthoughtIsawyoutry, moyashi-neechan, JL27, SeungSeiRan, rein hitomi, jagaimo-chan, hoshiko2kokoro, Psyche Eros, Cake or Death, LovelyToMeetYou, CherryFlamingo, albinococoon, MuSiC HaTs, splitDEVOTION, Lndmuse, **and **CodeLyoko!**

_Keep Calm and Carry On_: A meme for Real Life, various LJ icons and too many T-shirts to count, this phrase (the original) was first printed on one of a series of three positive propaganda posters released by the Ministry of Information in 1939 with the intent of inciting a collected, can-do attitude from the British as they faced the looming threat of WWII (not that it was really needed - the British populace at large is actually quite well-known for not really being bothered by anything at all ever as long as there's still tea). As to the aforementioned LJ icons and T-shirts, well-known witty variants of this phrase include 'Now Panic and Freak Out', 'Sod Calm and Get Angry', 'Change Words and Be Hilarious' and (my personal favourite) 'Keep Calm and Call Batman'. Words to the wise indeed! :3

Pangaea

Keep Calm and Carry On

Reality crystallized soundlessly, the white edges of nothing splintering and falling away in feathered flakes to reveal his new environment in small snatches, like tiny scales falling from his eyes. After a moment his body followed as weight and gravity clicked on rather suddenly, leaving him earthed, disorientated, surely miles away from where he had first fallen.

America opened his eyes to find a weave of foliage stitched high above him, blotting out the sky so that only the boldest fragments of sunlight wormed their way through the tight knit of the canopy and fell on his face. He sat up, pinching at the bridge of his nose as he shook his head to clear it, and then glanced around.

Well, _this_ was strange.

He found himself in the very heart of a forest – the kind in old European fairytales, thick and dark and gnarled with ivy crawling up every ancient overhanging tree and a carpet of greenery laid out on the ground. Every stone had moss on it as though it had lain undisturbed for centuries and several trees, he saw now, had long since died and stood twisted and deformed with hollowed-out innards, still rotting. The place was completely still (with no sign of moving life whatsoever, not even a breeze so that the air hung rather stale and inert) and utterly soundless, so much so that although the place was somewhat unnerving, he was under the impression nonetheless that he was utterly alone.

(Which was a bit of a shame, if only because now was the perfect time to turn to someone and quip that they weren't in Kansas anymore.)

And as consciousness slowly lapped away at his disorientation, America suddenly remembered _why _he was here in this strange, still forest. The transportation had been an emotional reset and, for a blissful moment, he'd only been focused on absorbing the strange new milieu; however, the recent past was quickly catching up and it was mere seconds before the memory of fresh loss full-on tackled him.

A seasoned spark of pain lit in his chest and America pitched forward with a strangled desperate cry.

"_England_!"

The name echoed through the empty forest, as if they were still in that self-destructive storage room, dragged under by roots from England's very lands, still surrounded by guardians and symbols all hell-bent on snuffing the source of their mythos from the world.

Looking down, he saw those same thick roots which had dragged England's house into the utmost bowels of London weaving across the ground, as still as statues now and dusty with the debris of decades. He leapt to his feet, as fast as the emotional constriction around his chest would allow, and stared at his open hands. They were shaking and still streaked with blood drawn from the rose thorns, blood that had been strangely absent in those last horrific moments when England was impaled upon St George's sword. America knew it had happened, he had seen the long blade sink easily into England's body as if it were a homecoming; there was no denying the act itself. But there had been no blood, no wound, no reaction, save for the fact that he had been unexpectedly transported here.

And since there was no blood it naturally followed that there may have been no death as well.

It was a small and foolish hope but that was more than enough for a natural optimist like America and he quickly seized on the notion. He convinced himself that England _must _still be around; why else had he been sent to an old English woodland if not to be the hero in search of the sleeping beauty?

Reassured by his self-appointed mission, he gingerly stepped towards the nearest root and picked his way along it, following the winding path of it between the old trees. He had no idea where he was going, of course, and hoped that this might lead him _somewhere_—

Given, of course, that there was no sign of England; nor the attendants which had so selflessly followed him to his self-elected grave.

For several long, silent moments, he simply walked with barely a touch of change in his surroundings; and the stale static prickled uncomfortably at his skin until he began to feel really quite anxious, his imagination teasing at his rationality so that he began to speculate (quite understandably, of course) that there might be ghosts and ghouls and god only knew what else lurking at the hearts of these deformed branches. Well, seriously, he'd seen Disney's _Snow White_ and _she_ was trekking through a forest just like this one when all the trees started to get creepy faces and claws on their branches so that they could grab at her; and hadn't he just been thinking about _The Wizard of Oz_ as well because hell if something similar hadn't happened in that, too, evil trees in haunted forests or something like that… And after the recent turn of events, with symbols and creatures swarming out of the woodworks and into reality, it wasn't much of a stretch to imagine the monsters crawling out of the movies. Before too long America had his M1911 out, safety off and finger on the trigger as he trotted nervously without quite breaking into a blind run—

But then he rounded an old oak, hollowed and rotting where it stood, pistol half-raised, and stopped dead. Before him, towering far overhead, were the skeletal remains of what looked like an old abbey. The crumbling spines of gothic pillars still stretched out of sight between the trees like the desperate hands of the dying and broken archways still crested halfway, bridges to nowhere. Empty windows, long since bereft of their panes, gaped like open wounds and all about the fragile structure was the frothing emerald decay of ivy, tight between the smallest of cracks to burst it open and rip the cathedral's corpse apart at the seams.

The roots were still running this way, coiling out of sight through the main archway of the old structure's bare bones, and America followed them, cautious in his oft-clumsy gait as he ascended each of the crumbling steps, the exhale-vibrations of his brand-new military issue boots on a construction far older than he, patient with the deep ache of history. Stepping through the archway, there was a shift and a sigh in the air as though he had stepped through a gossamer curtain and then—

The old abbey was gone and (with a glance over his shoulder to affirm) no longer stood even behind him, the forest having vanished too like a startled daydream. Instead he found himself standing precariously at the edge of a large, flat, circular platform of white which floated, seemingly, in the utter absence of anything but the roots which weaved still across its plain expanse. All around him was stark white too, above, below, absolutely everywhere; and the only distinguishing feature about this singular platform upon which he found himself at all was the door suspended in the very centre of it – a handsome affair, carved oak with a decadent and medieval air about it, the roots curling beneath like gnarled old ringlets. Without dwelling much on it – for where else was he to go with the forest evaporating and leaving him marooned on a monotone island? – America went straight to the arched portal and twisted the heavy brass handle, pulling the door open with the groan of unoiled hinges. Impossibly (since the door seemed to simply _be_ and act as nothing other than an unnecessary thoroughfare to the other side of the platform), he found that he had opened a doorway to a small room absolutely cluttered with _things_. He stepped in tentatively, still keeping a firm grasp on his gun, and the door swung shut by itself behind him.

The room was narrow and dark with barely room to take a step – and it was reminiscent entirely of England's little storage room in his destroyed house, the same one in which his final attendants had gathered to see him off. The walls were littered with old paintings of long-dead monarchs and quaint pastoral scenes in faded colors and fraying Medieval tapestries; and between these were shelves and cases and indeed even raw _stacks_ of books, precarious and uneven and tattered leather in once-rich shades. There were statues and ornaments and glinting bottles with miniature ships in them; crests and banners and suits of armor; swords, shields, bows, cannons; painted wooden horses and silver tea-sets and piles of clothes in the fashions of all centuries—

And, at the end, half-obscured by a thick curtain of deep red velvet, was an open doorway. The roots had found their home in here, curling and settling about these old possessions of England's – the very same, America wouldn't wager, as the things in England's storage room, dragged down here for jealous safekeeping. America scrambled through the corridor of trinkets, careful to step over thick veins of roots as he made his way towards the door, apologizing to what looked like one of Queen Victoria's gowns when he stumbled on a small bust of Shakespeare and accidentally bumped into it (before catching himself and realizing that he was talking to a _dress_). He was beginning to get that _Alice in Wonderland_ vibe again, given that his experience in this very strange, ever-changing milieu thus far seemed to have revolved around him finding doors to go through (though thankfully none yet that he was either much too big or much too small to fit) and hoped that this would be the last of them – not that he had any idea what he was _looking_ for, exactly, except maybe England standing waiting for him. "Ah, you found me," he'd say in a perfect world; and then they'd go home and America would sulk with him for days afterwards for his poor idea of a joke and all would be well.

Alas, this was not what he found on pushing aside the curtain. Though he had yet to take a step down, he instinctively knew he was going deeper, burrowing through the innards of the floating white island before coming out on the other side. He emerged below a heavy marble archway, beneath and around which were littered various rich accruements to symbolize Great Britain with a touch more magnificence than a short blonde physical embodiment with the face of a human and the bloodlust of an entire army. Here sat a hand-carved throne, upon which was a heavy crown and a leather-bound copy of the _Magna Carta_; above this was the crest America had come to know rather well by now, lion and unicorn firmly in place fighting it out; and, to his left, a full-size marble figure of Britannia (whom America recognized more for being wrought of stone instead of flesh), her spear thrust outright. High above it all, suspended from a pole, was the Union Flag.

This, America realized with some chagrin, was actually the other side of the circular platform he had begun upon; but the surroundings were no longer bare. All around, as far as the eye could see, with perhaps a half-mile's distance between each of them, were other platforms just like this one, floating independently amidst nothingness, like cultural jetsam on the nonexistent tide. Each had an archway, presumably leading down into its own narrow little "museum", and clustered about its mouth were various artifacts of the highest representation, the entire structure crowned with the country's corresponding flag.

To the left floated France's, Marianne guarding a guillotine with a bloodied crown in her hand; and Canada's was on the other side of that, an entire maple tree growing around the archway, littering the platform with crimson stars. Some reflected a country's architecture more outright; China's archway was fashioned after those common in a Buddhist temple and a squint at both Greece and Turkey's (which were quite far away) made it clear that their own arches had the typical Grecian pillars and the complex mathematics of Islamic design, respectively.

Germany's was stained red by the ragged Nazi swastika overhanging its gorgeous Gothicism.

None of the platforms were connected to each other in any way, making it impossible – it seemed – to get from one to another…

…With the exception, America noticed, of England's and his own, which were next to one another. There was a narrow gilded bridge stretching between them, allowing access between one and the other, which America suspected was likely a new addition brought about by England having put his blood and his history into America's body. The connection was tenuous, like gold spun finely between their floating lands, stretched incredibly thin in the middle so that it was little more than a pretty plank. Still, they were connected and America could feel the tug of his own archway across the bridge.

Great. _More_ doors. He should have left breadcrumbs or something.

He wasn't entirely sure why he was simply blindly following doorway after doorway, going further and further down this rabbit-hole; but he didn't know what else to do. There didn't seem to be any way back regardless of _how_ far he went and he was hoping, just desperately _hoping_, that if he kept going, he might find some trace of England himself.

He finally put his M1911 back in its holster and hopped down onto the flimsy bridge, padding carefully across it (without looking down) towards the familiar thirteen stripes and forty-eight stars flapping above an archway similar in design to England's. There was an eagle with outstretched wings atop his, too, and either side of the blue curtain hiding the little room full of his own clutter stood Columbia andJean-Antoine Houdon's statue of George Washington. There was a miniature Statue of Liberty, too, and above her head hung a copy of the Declaration of Independence in a gilt frame.

America shimmied past Lady Liberty and pushed back the curtain, stepping down into the small, narrow room of his own subconscious keeping. Here lay guns and blue uniforms and old pieces of failed Wright Brothers proto-airplanes; Betsy Ross' original flag design for the fledgling United States adorning the nearest wall and Henry T. Ford's first production-line automobile crouched in a corner like a shining black beetle. The clutter was not quite as bad as England's, who had more centuries to cram into such a small space, but America did not pause to take stock of his symbolic belongings nonetheless, his gaze drawn instead to the open trapdoor in the middle of the floor (a feature most _certainly_ not present in England's). He crossed to it and looked down at the steps it gave way to – narrow, wooden, rickety things like those in old colonial houses.

That it was lying open at all seemed reason enough for investigation and he carefully picked his way down the stairs; there was no banister and he kept his hand to the wall for purchase, following the dreary downward wind of the staircase until he emerged into a long, wide room of considerable splendor. There were no windows, in their place rows of candle-lit alcoves in the walls, each holding a marble bust of one of his past presidents, and the high ceiling was painted with the familiar image of Columbia stringing telegraph poles across the Frontier – John Gast's iconic painting symbolizing Manifest Destiny, _American Progress_.

The room was empty, however, but for one thing – one giant thing which commandeered the space to her mighty whim. Her sails folded like old skin, her bedraggled Union and English flags limp against her battered masts, he hadn't seen her for centuries but knew her the moment he saw her.

The Mayflower floating miraculously against the solid ground was still not what drew his attention entirely, however; he saw the moonlight gleam of the unicorn, he saw the gold flush of the lion – and, hacking away at her hull with St George's sword, he saw England.

* * *

"So you have the entire Scandinavian Front dealt with and secure," Germany repeated, batting Italy away from the phone's coiled cord. "You are quite sure?"

Prussia gave an icy little laugh on the other end of the line, the mocking incredulous tone carried easily even over their fuzzy connection.

"You always sound like you don't believe me, West," he sighed. "Am I so untrustworthy?"

Germany felt his heart give an uncomfortable tug and he couldn't gather his breath in order to answer the obvious dig. The loss of his Führer was still too fresh and inexplicable to be touched, as raw as a wound through which Prussia had sucked out the so-called poison. Italy unerringly sensed the ache radiating from Germany's silence and climbed up to straddle his legs, wrapping his arms around his neck, nuzzling affectionately against him so that he had to switch the side on which he held the phone in order to accommodate a lapful of cuddling country.

Prussia simply laughed again at the silence, mocking amusement that turned to humming over the phone.

"I bend over fucking backwards for you and you know it," he said coldly. "Well, have no doubt that it's done. Kinda easy, really – barely broke a sweat. I had Russia with me, after all. You can mark all of Scandinavia off your little map."

"I am glad to hear it," Germany said stiffly; he was glad to be moving forward with the unemotional, and therefore less uncomfortable, talk of military strategizing. "You may proceed, then."

"Who's next?" Prussia sounded rather bored. "France? England? Oh, I can't wait to bash their scheming little skulls in…"

"No, I will not leave all the work to you," Germany replied shortly. "I will deal with France myself. I need to crush him before he can either escape to England's or mobilize himself. France's location has a strategic advantage to England, given their physical closeness. If England attacks us by land, it will be through France's territory."

"What about Portugal? He and England are still thick as thieves when it comes to military talk."

"I shall have Portugal imprisoned in his brother's house. Spain is Fascist so I am sure he will not mind. I agree that we cannot trust Portugal to not aid England, even if he officially remains neutral. Spain himself borders France and I am to his right, leaving him with few options for escape. Logically, he will go westward towards England and seek refuge on the other side of the English Channel with him."

Prussia coughed, kicking up a flurry of auditory fuzz across the phone line.

"And Belgium?" he asked. "She's straight up. He could go to her."

"That is where you come in," Germany said, at last chasing Italy off his lap only by standing and dumping him unceremoniously to the floor. "Holland and Belgium must be dealt with in order to successfully box France in."

"So that's our next assignment." Prussia paused. "What then?"

"Then France and England. As I said, I will deal with them myself."

"What about America?"

"Once we have put England in a position in which he must surrender, Japan and I will pincer America from both sides and crush him. Had he not declared war on us, it might have been different, but as it stands I know that he will mobilize once we invade England's land to come to his aid. Our defeat of England must be swift enough that it renders America's assistance useless – and to do that, we _must_ capture France and blockade the English Channel."

"Very well," Prussia said briskly, not sounding terribly interested. "I'll inform Russia of the plan. I'll speak with you later, West."

He hung up the phone rather abruptly, Germany doing the same at a more languid pace. He looked down at Italy, who was leaning against the desk, smiling at him.

"All is going well, hmm?" Italy said mildly.

"It would seem so," Germany replied, sitting once again and pressing his hands together thoughtfully. "Prussia has excelled himself, for once. I suppose you might as well make amends."

Italy nodded and went into one of the desk drawers, withdrawing an eraser and going to the wall to the right of the broad desk which had once belonged to Germany's Führer. Here, the wall was just plain white plaster, devoid of paint or wallpaper, and upon it was a perfectly accurate, highly-detailed map of the world drawn by Italy; done in pencil with the names of cities and rivers and mountains picked out in both Italian and German.

Italy fetched himself the footstool he had used to originally draw the uppermost reaches of the map to begin with and hopped up onto it, pressing one hand to the wall to steady himself as he began to rub out all of the lines depicting the boundaries between the Scandinavian countries, converting them all into one large, strangely-shaped specimen as he took out all their unique place-names and erased their existence entirely from his map.

Germany came around the desk and looked up at the map – at the changing, merging face of Europe – as Italy finished the last of his erasing. He looked upon it with a certain swell of pride, not just at what he had achieved but also at how beautiful it was, how well Italy had captured their vision.

Some of the pencil was beginning to get rather worn away, however.

"Italy," he said briskly, pointing towards the British Isles, "the United Kingdom is fading a bit. Don't forget to thicken up the lines before we invade." He frowned. "America too, actually."

"I will!" Italy called cheerfully as he untucked a pencil from his belt. He stretched up to write across the strange new shape of old Scandinavia what he had done already to Austria and Czechoslovakia and Hungary, to Prussia and Poland and Russia and the entire Soviet Union, to China and Japan and himself.

_Axis_

* * *

Japan's small tabi-clad feet were silent as he crossed the smooth expanse of the room, tea tray carefully balanced in both hands. It was his finest set, thin glass bedecked with hand-painted phoenixes and gold detail, half obscured by passing clouds of white paint crosshatched across the black shellacked background. Such finery was not customary for Japan's tea ceremony, but neither was such a lofty and grand venue. There were no tatami mats, no sunken hearth for the iron tea pot, no calligraphy hung from an alcove, no surrounding garden bred intentionally for rustic simplicity to accompany the delicate flavor of the light green tea. Instead, the tea set that he carried carefully, gentle in setting it down atop the low table, was nothing more than a shadow of the traditional ceremony that was meant to imbue the principles of harmony, purity and respect - ideals that were impossible to feel when he was sharing said tea with a prisoner.

He knelt, arranging himself so that his silk kimono fanned and folded in all the right places, and watched China work for a long moment, his dark eyes gleaming.

Their progress was good. Already the machine had taken on its monstrous black shape, high and hulking, blades gleaming at its skeletal forefront; it was still gutted, its innards being assembled separately before being transplanted into the frame, but with its outer shell complete, it undeniably looked like a hideous and twisted tank which had trundled straight out of a nightmare.

Italy's design, of course (safely on paper), was gorgeous; every last millimeter of his fanciful drawing was enslaved to detail, lashings of delicate wrought ironwork on the front grate, deep and beautiful engravings etched onto each of the metal plates and even the necessary bolts and most utilitarian mechanics of the engine were shaped artistically rather than expected to fit the grip of any wrench in reality. It was a work of fantasy, a dangerous and beautiful creature from a fairytale, perhaps; and the creation itself looked a little like it. It seemed almost equine in the rolling curves of its most base outline, the way the frame splayed blades like a mane down the bowed stretch of its neck, gaunt and graceful as an apocalyptic steed. Oh, Japan and China both knew how to craft beauty out of base and blunt metal, how to fold the heated iron over itself countless times until it was a weapon, engrave entire scenes into a few centimeters of space up its deadly gleaming side—

But Japan was practical nonetheless and it seemed to him that Italy's design was not invested in the real world at all. Something as beautifully-crafted as Italy's creation would crumple beneath its own weight if it drove over so much as a rock – and so Japan had sacrificed aesthetical detail in favor of the thing being robust. It was black iron and steel rivets in plates in the shape of a decidedly less-frail beast. The invulnerable, hinged tail of a lobster, monstrous tire tracks with folded legs underneath like a spider, a pointed grate encrowning the front reinforced with steel blades to carve up the waiting Earth.

There were still some elusive calculations he was having trouble with, a missing link that not even Germany's meticulous engineering could pin down on paper – but they had nothing to do with the outer design of the machine, simply its more mysterious inner workings. His mind idled on the issue again as he watched China toil, laboring over a project he wanted no part of.

"China," he said at length, "come and have some tea."

China put down his spanner and looked at Japan over his shoulder. His eyes were cold despite being rimmed with sweat.

"Very well," he said. He attempted to wipe his oily hand clean, an almost laughable pretense as they were stained black with the mechanical pitch, before smoothing back his long hair, half of which had fallen out from the cord tying it over his shoulder. China stood slowly, wearily, and Japan fancied he could hear the fatigue creaking audibly from his prisoner's overworked joints. The older country was sweaty and filthy, having worked long, exhausting hours on the machine for the past few weeks, and tugged his open Mandarin shirt closer around his shoulders and bare chest as he approached Japan.

The bruise on his shoulder from where Japan had struck him with a piece of metal pipe from the machine had at last turned an ugly brown color; while the ill-knit seams of scars beaded here and there in small shameful lumps of bare flesh pin-pointed the finer details of abuse.

China sank to his knees at the opposite side of the table, not meeting Japan's gaze. He distractedly neatened his hair, looping the silk cord back around it, as Japan made a demure show of pouring hot water over the green tea powder. The steam settled like a veil between them and Japan sighed contentedly as he began to whisk the fragrant concoction until it was crowned in froth.

Neither bothered mentioning the skipped steps – the customary purification, the bowing as a way to give and receive respect.

"This is nice," Japan said. "It's good to rest now and then." He passed China's tea towards him, one hand cupping the underside, the other tucked politely around the side. "You're doing well, China."

His hand rose from the cup, his thin fingers outstretched as the doubled sleeves of his kimonos slid back along his wrist, and moved towards China's face with the intent, perhaps, of brushing aside a strand of sticky hair; China reacted with the quickness of a snake, slapping Japan's hand away.

"Don't touch me," he growled savagely, wrapping both hands around his cup and drawing it towards himself as if it were a shield, his shoulders hunching.

Japan raised his fine dark eyebrows.

"Your manners are lacking this weather, China," he mused. "You always taught me to treat guests with utmost respect and humility, not to mention unwavering hospitality – and yet I find that your charms are thin, at best."

"You are not a guest," China replied icily, closing his eyes as he sipped at his tea. "This is forceful occupation. You have no right to be in Beijing, much less in the Emperor's palace!"

Japan shrugged, the well-worn argument having lost its weight long ago, transferred instead to the yoke he had China pinned beneath.

"Then perhaps it would be in your interest to coerce me to leave," he replied pleasantly, a breezy suggestion no more substantial than the steam rising from their cups.

China said nothing, looking down at his tea. Japan smirked.

"Ah, that's right," he said gently. "You cannot, of course. I have already beaten you into submission. That your Emperor fled and left you at my mercy is of no consequence, really. All that matters is that your lands are now mine – and what is mine is part of the Axis Design." Japan allowed his fingers to ghost along the familiar, textured hilt of the katana at his hip. "These are all things that you would do well to remember, China. You lost to me – as you have lost to me before." He shook his head sympathetically. "I can't help it if you won't learn from history – though I must say that it's somewhat ironic that your failings have always been because of your disinterest in industrialization. Looking at the work you have done on our machine, it would seem to me that you have a bit of a talent for the physical work that industrialization requires."

"I have no interest in such vulgar pursuits," China said. "All industrialization has done is find ways to kill more and more, faster and faster – _that_ and made it easier to steal from one another."

Japan gave another sing-song sigh.

"Oh, you're so naïve." He looked down at the steam spiraling up from his tea. "This ignorance – this ridiculous moral high-ground – is what has made you so weak. Do you think England cared what you thought of him when he addled your brain with drugs to get what he wanted? Do you think _I_ cared when I beat the living daylights out of you not once but twice?" He gave an incredulous shake of his head. "You're a fool, China."

China still wouldn't look at him, clearly disgusted as he frowned at his tea instead.

"I did not raise you to be like this, Japan," he said stiffly, grip tightening around his cup. "This bullying behavior did not come from me, I assure you – and _that_ is why you presume me weak in the face of it. The grasp of Western greed is strong on you." He sounded downright prophetic, a false trait Japan had long since grow accustomed to.

Japan smiled, the expression pulling his moon-pale face taut in the instant before his hand flashed out and he threw his tea straight at China. It hit the older nation's bare chest, steam sparking as it made contact with his skin, and China gave a half-strangled shriek and a long hiss, recoiling.

"You always get guts at the wrong moment, China," Japan said in a low voice. "It's stupid of you." He poured himself another cup of tea as he watched China regain his posture, panting with pain. "You should have learnt by now that your best hope of preservation is to accept our will with obedience and in silence. I'll thank you to hold your tongue on your opinion of my alliances."

China bowed his head – but it was not in reverence.

"You dishonor me, Japan," he said icily, barely raising his voice above a disgusted whisper.

Japan simply snorted.

"Your dishonor is misplaced," he said, sipping at his tea. "I do not see at all how my actions bring shame upon you but that you are shamed by my victory. I have no sympathy for weakness, not even from you, and so I will not tolerate it." He waved his hand dismissively towards the machine. "I tire of you, anyway. Get back to work."

The older country was silent as he stood, leaving his cup half-drained on the table, another half cup of tea now stained and heated painfully through his shirt.

With China slaving over the machine again, his work considerably slower with the blistering ache of the burn, Japan pressed his hands together on the tabletop and watched him, his dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully. The mechanism was Germany's job, really, designed by Italy at his approval, and Japan couldn't be held accountable if the machine didn't work as Germany wished; but nonetheless, they _were_ eluded still by the process they wished to harness. There was an implicit bond between a nation and their land, so much so that great trauma to their landmass caused them to bleed and scar and bear the brunt of it – and their land was their keeper, also. When a nation was afflicted with a mortal wound, upon death their soil would take in their body and they would be restored to life (often hundreds of miles away) within the confines of their human helm. America, for example (should he die), would breathe again in the White House; England in the Houses of Parliament; Germany in the Reichstag and so forth.

For China and Japan both, this regeneration location was their respective Emperor's palace.

This was the tie which Germany needed to have under his control if his machine was to function. His plan to erase borders between countries and repaint the entire globe as a single nation-state – Axis – which worked together from within required an understanding and a deconstruction of what made a nation who they were, what united them with their land so completely.

Japan's mind stalled on the issue again, a cord of irritation catching and knotting through the problem. There was a code in the earth itself which he couldn't crack – a formula needed for the machine and yet out of his reach.

And unless they solved it, the machine would never work.

Quick, silent, Japan rose, unsheathing his katana and stepping towards China from behind as he worked. He had done this before, many times, chasing after the power to revive their embodiment which Chinese lands possessed, and nothing had come of it. China's earth refused to give up the secret and he expected no less now, even as he raised his sword.

If China noticed, he didn't react. Japan swung down diagonally, barely feeling the resistance of bone against such a finely honed blade as he cut off China's head with a single easy swipe. He stepped back with the motion, although not quick enough that he avoided the arc of blood which spattered like deeper and darker cherry blossom petals up the front of his kimono. China's lifeless body swayed for only a moment as the arterial geyser continued to gush before he collapsed in a nerveless heap, his head barely hitting the floor after it some feet away. The instant he hit the ground his skin began to bubble and pull, first inward as every cell of his being sloughed and was drawn to the nucleus of China's body, and then downward as the entire writhing mass sank into the marble.

Japan cleaned his blade with a swift swing to the side and re-sheathed it as he walked away from China's twisting, deflating body, glancing back at the threshold just in time to see the crisp outline of his skeleton before it too fully liquefied and then disappeared between the cracks of the floor, leaving behind no trace whatsoever of the corpse's presence. He turned away again, stepping into the adjacent room – a magnificent chamber of red and gold with a throne, carved dragons coiling around it, at the end of it atop three steps. The throne was empty.

Everything was silent, of course, muted as though pressed down under some great, soft paw. There was not even the thrumming of reforming life beneath his feet as the essence of China's undying form flowed beneath him, an unconscious river carefully pieced back together by his land. Japan watched sulkily as ribbons of blood and marrow spiraled out from the gaps in the marble before the grand throne and wrapped themselves about with a flurry of affectionate effort, filling in the outline of a body, organs inflating rapidly like colorful balloons before being sheathed with flesh, creased with wrinkles and imperfections and finally the fabric of well-worn clothing until China stood again, his head back on his shoulders without even a mark upon his neck. He exhaled deeply, tiredly, and trained his weary amber eyes upon Japan, who peered angrily around the doorframe at him, empty-handed.

"Disappointed?" China asked coldly.

Japan lowered his head in a sarcastic bow.

"Of course," he replied.

* * *

"England!"

America bounded off the final step, turning practically buoyant as his heart lifted in his chest in utter relief as he saw England as plain as day before him, clearly very much alive and… trying to cut into the hull of an old ship with a sword.

England froze at the sound of his name, his lion and his unicorn looking towards America long before he did. The lion growled, the threat arching off the high ceiling in lacy peals, but America paid it no heed, padding happily towards the Mayflower and England with an uncontrollable grin of pure joy, so delighted was he to see him.

"England, jeez, thank god I found you!" America chirped as England lowered the sword. "I was getting worried that I was completely lost and I'd _never_ be able to get out of here, wherever the heck we are… and, well, gosh, I'm just so glad to _see_ you because… well, I mean you had all those… uh, representatives of yours flocking 'round your lifeless body like it was a goddamn funeral and then King Arthur stabbed a fuckin' _sword_ straight through you and I figured it would take more than that to kill you, especially since everything was so weird an' all, but it's good to see you, um… in full health and trying to fend off that vicious ship…?"

England didn't turn to him, clenching his fist around the sword.

"I told you not to follow me," he said in a low voice.

America paused, stopping a few feet away from him as caution rallied in; the lion slinked around England, his body coiled and low to the ground, his gold eyes not leaving America even for an instant.

"…Yeah," America replied, deflating a little bit. "Y-yeah, I know, but—"

"I told you not to follow me several times," England interrupted, still not looking at him. "I told you _why_ you couldn't follow me. I even _stopped_ you from following me by physically restraining you."

"Yes, but—"

"_Why_, then, do I find you before me?" England finally turned to him, his tone and his expression both cold and furious. "Hmm? Would you care to enlighten me?" He put his hand to the lion's head, perhaps to stop him from pouncing at America and ripping out his throat as his anger rippled through his beasts. "Is it that my persuasive powers are no longer what they used to be or is it simply that you are stupid, America?"

"Uh." America didn't know quite what to say to that. "…Option One, I guess? You told me not to come and here I am."

He gave a nervous little laugh, looking away, no longer able to meet England's eyes. England was funny when he was agitated or flustered or cross about trivial things. He wasn't funny _at all_ when he was honestly livid – the green of his eyes could cut when narrowed and honed.

"Strange." England's tone was very clipped. "I find myself drawn towards Option Two, myself." He looked at America in utter disgust. "Look at you, pleased as bloody punch with yourself and all. I expect you think this is a grand adventure – that you've done a brave and heroic thing by venturing down here after me, risking peril to rescue me like some flaming damsel in distress!" He flashed Ascalon towards America, its edge gleaming brightly beneath the strange sunless light of the room. "Honestly, do I look to you as though I _need_ rescuing?"

America looked at him. For someone who'd just had a sword run through him, he didn't have a mark on him whatsoever; and standing firmly in his green military uniform flanked either side by his powerful symbols, sword in hand and his jade eyes as hard as steel, he didn't look much like the stereotypical damsel, to be honest.

"Well, uh, no, not really," America admitted, feeling the beginning pangs of guilt and confusion paw at him, a familiar combination in light of recent events.

"Then perhaps you'll kindly take your heroics elsewhere," England said frostily. "Like to the bloody_ war_."

The guilt was quickly shooed away by the flare of annoyance at being scolded like a naughty child by England, something he was pretty sure he'd grown out of by now (or, at least, he'd gotten too old for England to have the _right_ to scold him like a naughty child), and America folded his arms petulantly.

"Well, that's kinda rich coming from _you_," he pointed out, "given that you just upped and bailed—"

"America, we have been _over_ this—"

"And _second_ of all," America went on, determined to be heard out, "you can shout at me all you like for not doing what you told me to do but that doesn't change the fact that I found you down here meddling with _my_ _stuff_!" He threw out his arms, gesturing to the room, to the Mayflower. "I mean, what the fuck are you doing to _my_ Mayflower?"

"The Mayflower is an English ship," England said curtly, "which brought English settlers to what became an English colony—"

"And then I kicked you out on your ass, so that makes it mine by proxy – which is why it's down here with _my stuff_." America scowled. "And honestly? I don't much care for you cutting a huge fuckin' hole in it! It's gonna be useless if you do that!"

England rolled his eyes, turning Ascalon over in his hand.

"America, it's not _real_," he said wryly. "Well, it's real – but it's not _physical_. You can't sail in it. It's just a manifestation, an echo of your history."

"W-well, even so!" America said crossly, flailing his arms again. "Why are you hacking away at it?"

England put the point of the sword to the ground, his hand over the globe of iron at the end of the handle as he leaned on the weapon as though it was a cane; he looked at America very long and hard for a moment, silent, as though debating how best to word his reply. His unicorn nudged at his shoulder and he absently stroked the whiskery velvet of her nose.

"I am under the impression," he said, still holding America's gaze, "that you fail to understand quite where we are."

"Well, uh, yeah, there wasn't exactly a signpost," America replied curtly. "Sorry I'm not a regular Sherlock."

"That may be," England said, sounding quite irritable, "but nonetheless I thought it might have made itself rather obvious."

America shrugged helplessly.

"I'm stumped," he admitted.

"Indeed." England took his hand from the unicorn's nose just long enough to point towards the ceiling. "Above us is a place called Pangaea. Ironic title, really, since everything up there is rather separate – a subconscious realm which stores our history for us. All nations which have ever existed, even if they no longer inhabit the map, have one of those floating islands to call their own. Rome's is up there, for example, for even though he no longer exists as a nation, his history is still a part of the world and there are remnants of his Empire all over Europe. Pangaea is, however, a secret – most nations do not know of its existence and never will unless they die. Dalliances down here are forbidden unless at the cost of the sacrifice of one's nationhood." England's eyes hardened again. "Which is precisely why _you_ cannot be down here. I have sacrificed to make this journey – you have not." He shook his head firmly. "You _must_ go back, America. You have no right to be here."

"I'll only go back if you come with me," America said stubbornly.

"I can't. I have something I must do and… well, as I said, I have sacrificed. I cannot go back now – that's the price of what I did with you."

"_Why_, though?" America insisted. "What's the big deal? You just put some of your history in me, big whoop."

"It _is_ a big whoop," England replied dryly. "It's utterly forbidden. Everything to do with Pangaea is. This is the cataloging system of history itself. We may be nations but it is not for us to meddle with."

"Uh…" America was floored. "Then… um, why are you down here, you know, _meddling_?"

England looked away.

"I can't tell you," he said.

"Christ, why _not_?" America burst out. "I'm so damn sick of you being all… _secretive_—"

"Well, forgive me," England interrupted icily, "but there is a time and a place for playing favorites with you, my lad, and this isn't it." He lifted the sword again and waved the point in America's general direction. "Look, just… just stay there. I'll deal with you in a moment. I'll have to send you back through your history…"

"I'm not going back!" America said obstinately.

"Yes you bloody well are," England replied lightly. "Now stay where you are."

He turned on his heel and went back to the hull of the Mayflower, turning Ascalon this way and that before plunging it through the seam of the planks. America took the opportunity to creep a few steps closer to him, trying to be as quiet as possible—

"_I told you to stay where you are!_" England lost his temper completely and whirled on America, pulling his Browning Hi-Power and holding him hostage with it. The sudden flash of the gun paled beneath the brimstone reflected in England's eyes.

"Okay, whoa, whoa," America cried, stopping where he was and putting up his hands in surrender. "Cool your fuckin' jets! I ain't moving!"

England made a very frustrated sound and America held his breath as the noise eddied through him.

"Just do as you're told, for _once_," he groaned. Still holding America at gunpoint, he patted his unicorn's wide, arched neck and addressed her: "Watch him, won't you? Don't hurt him but don't let him come near me."

The unicorn nuzzled at his hand affectionately and stepped forward, aligning herself with America, who took a nervous step back at the flash of her horn; she lowered her head, aligning the living weapon, and pawed at the ground in agitation. Behind her, England reholstered his gun and took the final step back towards the hull, lifting Ascalon once more. The lion lay down beside him as he worked, his tail flicking back and forth like a pendulum, and America was left with no choice but to watch the bizarre, unexplained spectacle from over the unicorn's shoulder.

She was watching him curiously, moving her head idly but precisely in order to keep him to the mark when he inched to the left or the right. He kept the glint of her horn at the edge of his gaze as he watched England, horribly mindful of it, and thought that it wasn't even worth reaching for his _own_ gun (with the intention of reversing the situation, holding England captive until he explained himself).

England's Browning, on that subject, was clearly tucked snugly back into its holster so that he could use both hands to cut into the hull of the Mayflower, slicing through the old wood and shattering it, splitting it so that it fell away from the frame, Ascalon carrying the strength to sink a ship. The growing gap blazed with color, a liquid-crystal glow of rainbow hues filtering out of the Mayflower's heart like a condensed, captured Aurora Borealis. England wedged the sword between two of the boards and pulled, breaking them away to leave a massive fissure in the hull, a sort of ragged archway into the Mayflower itself. The colored light fell across the floor, flowing out of the ship's innards liked spilt iridescent water, and with it words in tight, decorative gold, which floated on the surface of the marbled rainbow with the ease and clink of ice.

—_and honour of our king & countrie, a voyage to plant the first colonie in the Northerne parts of Virginia, doe by these presents solemnly and mutualy in the presence of God, and one of another, covenant and combine our selves togeather into a cavill body politick—_

This fragment washed beneath America's feet; and much more yet slid beyond him, all around, pooling beneath England, too, to cluster at their source and their recipient. These words were the Mayflower Compact, spilling out of the wounded ship like blood.

"England." America said his name sharply, looking up. "England, what the _hell_ is going on? What are you _doing_?"

England bade him no answer, lowering the sword to his side as he stepped into the ship; and instead of an empty hull, it was clear even to America (where he stood) that the bowels of the replica Mayflower were a corridor, the walls of which radiated that ethereal glow. At the end lay a door, ornate and with a heavy gold lock like the clasp of an old book, draped over with two tied and tasseled American flags crossed over one another – and before it, on a stone pedestal, was a long, narrow wooden box. England laid down Ascalon on the pedestal to lift the lid of box with both hands; and from within it, he drew out a large ceremonial knife, all of gold, the hilt in the shape of an eagle and laden with scarlet jewels.

"_England!_" America shouted at him, misgiving growing like a poisonous weed as England delved deeper into his inner workings. "Don't ignore me! What the fuck is going on here?" He grew angrier still at England's deliberate unawareness of him in favor of bringing the knife to the door within the Mayflower. "God _damn_ it, England! I _know_ you can hear me! That's _my_ ship, _my_ flag…! What the fuck are you doing to me?"

When England still stoutly refused to acknowledge him, America utterly lost his temper and dodged past the unicorn, taking her by surprise enough to duck her horn even as she reared and wheeled about in his periphery. He started towards the Mayflower just as England lowered the knife towards the keyhole in the ornate lock—

He got no further, too stunned to even cry out as the unicorn slammed her horn right through his chest from behind. He stumbled, thoroughly impaled on her, and at length gave an odd little gasp. It didn't even really hurt, feeling cold and tingling and peculiar more than anything, but he was so shocked that he couldn't even react to it.

The unicorn exhaled against the small of his back and retracted her horn from his body in a sharp motion; and, down here, his blood appeared to lack the discipline of normalcy, behaving instead in a spectacular fashion. It exploded out of his wound in layers, fluid fractures which, on impact with the Mayflower, with the floor still bathed in liquid light, fell into clear and concise shapes. Here upon the prow stretched the Statue of Liberty, a blotched eagle soaring over the archway cut into the hull, an entire cityscape, recognizable as New York City, arcing halfway onto the floor. When America collapsed, the blood pooled beneath him like the cracked Liberty Bell and Mount Rushmore, spreading and fanning under his bleeding body.

It was only now that England lowered his hand and turned to him, abandoning the door; the Mayflower had begun to shake, quivering and groaning as though suddenly under an immense amount of pressure, weathering an unseen storm. The bow leaned forward and began to crack and the deck of the ship sank inwards, the masts tilting. The unicorn, her horn dripping, came to him as he drifted, horrified, towards the archway to look at America; she nudged at his shoulder, perhaps looking for approval, and he looked at her in despair.

"I told you _not to_ _hurt him_," he groaned. "Oh, you stupid girl…"

There was an almighty crack from somewhere inside the Mayflower and the floor of the deck collapsed completely, crumbling into the hull. America rolled over with some effort and began to push himself up, blood still spilling out of the wound in his chest to splash to the floor in the shape of perfect stars.

"England, wh… what the hell have you done _now_?" he hissed, pushing up his slipping glasses with the heel of his hand.

"Nothing." Still holding the gold knife, England sprinted to him ahead of the prow breaking loose entirely and tumbling to the floor. "This is you, America. Your blood has been spilt down here and your history deems it unforgivable."

"It was… your dumb _unicorn_—!"

"She was doing her duty." England put the knife into his belt as the unicorn and the lion came to him. "And I will do mine."

The whole room seemed to shake now, quivering with the destruction of the Mayflower; and as it fell apart, it suddenly pitched forwards completely as though launching, thundering towards them as barely more than a bleeding skeleton—

America was pushed back to the floor again by the weight of England throwing himself on top of him, curling around him protectively, and by the lion and the unicorn in turn shielding their country, as the remains of the Mayflower came crashing down on top of them all.

* * *

…Honestly, I have nothing to say about this chapter, really. Nothing at all – except that we hope you feel that it was worth the wait. This is the first update of 2012 and here's hoping it won't be the last until 2013 for poor old _Pangaea_! XD In all seriousness, this just kept getting pushed back and back on my writing schedule and then I finally got it done and then it got pushed back again on _Narroch's_ writing schedule so it was a cumulative joint-effort fail, methinks. Hopefully it won't happen again!

Btw, Happy New Year, everyone!

RR and Narroch

xXx


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